


The summer guest

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Complicated Relationships, Inappropriate use of a ruler, Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Misunderstandings, Non-Consensual Spanking, Possessive Mycroft, Punishment, Sex, Sibling Incest, Spanking, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-12 21:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock are enjoying their newly developed relationship as lovers and are preparing to spend the summer holidays together at their parent's house. But the appearance of a summer guest in the form a charismatic chemistry teacher causes some unexpected feelings of jealousy, resentment and trust issues in Mycroft when he witnesses his brother showing a surprising interest in the much older man. Much to the chagrin of Mycroft who has been looking forward to a summer with his brother but is now suddenly forced to share his attention with someone else.With the heat soaring to unexpected levels as well as tension running high, Mycroft is slowly driven to some desperate measures to save the relationship with his brother.





	1. Expectations

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The winding road of secrets and lies](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18847807) by [Snoozydog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog). 



> Based on a reference made from the Holmes brother's past in the fic The winding road of secrets and lies but can definitely be read as a standalone, no knowledge of events from that story necessary.

"Sherlock, Mycroft, meet Professor Aidan Cairns. He is our summer guest for the next two months and will be renting the cottage.”

Mycroft put out his hand and welcomed the man his mother had just introduced to them in his usual polite but slightly aloof way that he tended to cultivate so people got the message that he wasn’t a person you should expect to be socializing with, apart from the bare minimum that constituted as politeness. 

Sherlock, who stood next to him, had no qualms about foregoing even the polite part of interaction with other people and therefore didn’t extend his hand in greeting, merely gave the newcomer one of his scrutinizing glares before turning on his heel and walked away as if the introduction of a summer guest had nothing to do with him and their mother had been foolish to think that it did.

“Sherlock!” she tried calling out after him but to no avail and a bit sheepishly she mumbled some half-hearted excuse for her youngest son’s lack of behaviour before taking the professor by the arm, as if compensating for her children’s cool indifference by being extra welcoming instead.

“I’ll show you the essentials and then you can get settled in,” she said and began to lead them away down the gravelly path towards the cottage, casting an irritated glare in Mycroft’s direction over her shoulder, as if he was to blame for his younger brother’s rude behaviour.

Left to his own devices Mycroft sighed. 

He would need to have a word with Sherlock about his rude behaviour later.  
At seventeen his brother was as unruly as ever and needed perhaps to be taught about the necessity of at least a minimum of social etiquette if this summer wasn't going to become a never-ending butting of heads between his parents and their youngest son.

But as Mycroft had, no less than fifteen minutes ago, enjoyed other, more _pleasurable_ sides, of his little brother’s personality, he felt it would be presumptuous of him to scold him over any lack of manners so soon after their delightful activities. 

Dealing with Sherlock in general was like working with an extremely sensitive chemical experiment that could either generate the most astounding result if treated properly, but could just as well turn not only foul but downright explosive if making the wrong choice or failing to keep attention. 

It was partly what drew Mycroft to Sherlock, you were never bored in his presence, but it could also be downright exhausting trying to keep up, with the boy constantly keeping you on your toes. 

He brought out the very best in Mycroft but also the very worst and ever since they had taken their relationship from the fraternal level to one of a more sexual, not mention romantic, nature, Mycroft had been forced to face sides of his own personality that he had until now, not known he possessed.

The summer heat had come early this year and the air was stuffy and rich with the strong scent of Rhododendron hanging over the garden like a quelling blanket, causing Mycroft to feel the beginnings of a headache making its presence known. He pulled out his handkerchief and patted his slightly glistening forehead while slowly making the walk over to the arrangement of garden furniture where he could enjoy the rare treat of some well deserved rest. 

He was frankly feeling exhausted after a gruesomely trying period of too much work lately, even by his standards, and while also trying to juggle the fairly new and still somewhat shaky relationship that had developed between him and Sherlock, which claimed a lot from him, both emotionally as well as physically, he was feeling quite drained at the moment. 

He was perhaps the happiest he had ever been in his entire life since his previously suppressed love for his brother had finally been manifested into an actual relationship, but it was at the same time running havoc with his resolve in a way he had not known to be possible before. 

No one could still infuriate him the way his little brother could, tease and poke, cause him to worry or bring such utter joy as he did. Because in the end, Sherlock was still the same little brat of a brother Mycroft had always known, just with the added benefits of sexual activities taking place in their interactions now.

Mycroft sat down heavily in one of the wicker chairs his mother insisted gave the proper feel of relaxation but everyone else found highly uncomfortable, and undid the upper button of his shirt in an effort to stave off the heat that was beginning to cling to his body uncomfortably. 

Mycroft had never liked summer and that hadn’t changed as he had grown up either. 

As a rather overweight child who did not enjoy physical activity because it made him pant undignifiedly and sweat profusely, summer made those things ten times worse because of the added heat. He had constantly longed for the cool crispness of autumn to arrive so it could once again be acceptable to sit indoors with a book instead of exposing your body in summer clothes that showed off his plumpness and participate in activities such as swimming in the lake or take exhausting walks that never lead anywhere, all because it was such a beautiful weather as his mother was so fond of pointing out. 

It had become infinitely worse when Sherlock grew up and needed to be activated.  
There were times when Mycroft had feared that he should suffer a veritable heart failure when trying to keep up with the whirlwind that was his brother. 

That had not changed over the years but at least he didn’t insist on Mycroft trying to climb trees with him anymore or swim across the lake in a silly competition. They had other physically demanding activities to partake in these days, but them Mycroft at least found a pleasure in doing.

He was not that overweight child anymore even if he still carried a little bit of extra weight around his middle, but the abhorrence he felt regarding summer was still deeply ingrained in him. The only plus side was the summer holidays that meant that he got to spend more time with Sherlock.

Mycroft closed his eyes and let relaxation take charge of his body for a few minutes, ignoring everything around him. 

He conjured up the image of his brother’s lean body straddling him the way he had been doing shortly before their mother had called for them to come and greet the new summer guest. 

The memory of the way Sherlock’s curls had bounced like a halo around his head, his plump lips falling open just slightly while his eyes were closed, the perfect epitome of lust incarnated in the features of his little brother as he had brought himself to completion, sent a shiver of pleasure through him. 

Such images kept Mycroft running during those days at the office when he felt like he was going to keel from exhaustion while trying to climb to the very top of the profession he was trying to create for himself. It was the stupidity of his superiors that they couldn’t see past his young age and just focus on his talent instead, no one else had the mind set and intelligence for the intricacies of politics and power play like he had.

The sound of Sherlock moaning his name before he came still rang in Mycroft's ears and he could feel his cock beginning to stir at the memory, so he precautiously crossed his legs to prevent any further developments in that department and then reluctantly opened his eyes again to rid himself of any further temptation.  
It wouldn’t do to sit in the garden of his family home, with his own mother close by, in the company of their unsuspecting summer guest cluelessly nattering on about house rules and guidelines while her oldest son indulged in sexual fantasies about his little brother. 

Even he had _some_ decency regarding proper time and place.  
He wasn’t sure Sherlock would have been as considerate though and that notion caused his lips to twitch instinctively into a little smile. 

Despite the infernal heat, this summer had the promises of becoming a good one this year and he was looking forward to spending it in the company of the only person with who he was willing to endure hellishly sweltering days as well as the tiresome company of their parents and their guest. 

Content in the knowledge that he would at least have Sherlock to rely on, he made himself more comfortable and closed his eyes again, but letting his thoughts wander to a much more wholesome topics this time.


	2. Persuasions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family dinner with their new guest

“What is it that you teach, Mr Cairns?” 

They were seated around the dinner table, thankfully not around the somewhat wobbly table in the garden their mother sometimes insisted that they gather around, and were enjoying a passable Blue Cheese and Walnut salad, some home-baked barely bread and roasted lamb, the effort of trying to come off as Mediterranean in her cooking habits, blatantly on display. 

Mycroft who had spent the afternoon reclining in the wicker chair and eventually had fallen asleep, a true testament of just how exhausted he actually was, found himself ravenous with hunger now and tucked in to his heart’s content, ignoring the bland taste of the lamb as well as the too overwhelming bitterness of the walnuts.

His skin had acquired a slightly pinkish hue from the exposure to the sun and the headache he had felt earlier was still persisting with its presence, but otherwise he was quite content and was not paying too much attention to the other people gathered around the table, with the exception of his brother who was seated opposite him. 

Despite the oppressive sunshine from morning to dusk, Sherlock’s skin was as porcelain pale as it always was, the only sign of it being summer when looking at him was the attire, dressed as he was in a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Combined with the ebony black curls that jumbled over his head he looked positively heavenly in Mycroft’s opinion.   
The combination of food and the vision of his brother to let his eyes rest upon was all he needed right now.

Unfortunately his parents had other plans and insisted with ruining a perfectly calm evening by making conversation. 

It was their father who had decided to be sociable for once and ask the newly arrived guest about his occupation, omitting the need the use the title of professor properly, insisting that he was simply Mr Cairns. 

Mycroft had given the obligatory glance of the man and deduced what could be seen of him during such a swift examination, dismissing him as unimportant and of no value of getting to know any further beyond the politeness that was required of him. 

Aidan Cairns was a man in his early thirties, light sand-coloured hair, spectacles, rather tall and of average build, the typical academic look about him with the hopeless dress sense of mixed patterns and colours that didn’t go together, as well as choosing garments of a cheap quality.   
His primly hands indicated that he wasn’t used to any manual labour and his slightly hunched shoulders told the tale of too much time spent behind a desk. 

Involuntarily Mycroft had made sure to straighten his own back a little when noticing this, aware as he was that he himself spent far too much time behind a desk as well. That line of work wasn’t doing wonders to anyone’s physique.

“I’m a chemistry professor at Loughborough University,” the professor answered while patting his lips with his napkin.   
He did this after every bite, Mycroft had noticed and attributed it as being on account of nervousness. Why anyone would feel the need to be nervous in the company of his parents, he had no idea, but perhaps the man had a nervous disposition in general, regardless of who he spoke to. 

“Oh, _chemistry_! Did you hear that, Sherlock?” their mother exclaimed.   
When not receiving an answer, she turned back to the professor again. “He is very interested in chemistry; he even has his own homebuilt laboratory in the garden shed. He used to have it in the basement but after some rather.... _unfortunate_ accidents we decided that it was safer to keep the experimentation out of the actual house.”

This produced a furious glare from her youngest son and Professor Cairns actually looked somewhat startled by this piece of information, but didn’t say anything, merely helped himself to some more bread, clearly finding the roasted lamb as unsatisfying as Mycroft did. 

Not to be deterred by this, their mother turned to Sherlock and pinned him with that piercing gaze both her sons had inherited from her. She was clearly displeased with how the atmosphere had suddenly turned somewhat tense and naturally wanted to blame someone else for it.

“Maybe you could show him your lab after dinner, dear? I’m sure it could be interesting for the professor to see a fellow-enthusiast at work? Make him feel _welcome_?”

The emphasis of the last word indicated that it was certainly not on account of her if Professor Cairns wasn’t settling in properly under their care. 

Had Mycroft not found the appalled look on his brother’s face so amusing he might have felt some sympathy with his plight, but as it was, it could do his brother some good to be forced to show some manners for once. It could also spare himself the trouble of breaching the subject og being polite tonight. He had far more pleasurable ideas about how he wanted to spend that time with his brother.

Since Sherlock had come home from school and Mycroft from London for the holidays, they had fallen into the habit of sleeping together in Mycroft’s room during the nights. They went to bed separately during the evenings and after their parents had fallen asleep Sherlock came into Mycroft’s room and climbed into the bed with him. They usually ended up having sex and then Mycroft invariably fell asleep while Sherlock usually didn’t. 

It had been an issue with him ever since childhood that he had difficulty sleeping, claiming that it bored him and over the years, the topic of sleep had been a huge concern for their parents especially. It didn’t particularly gladden Mycroft either that Sherlock slept so irregularly, just as he found his eating habits equally deplorable, but as it didn’t seem to do his brother any harm he had stopped admonishing him about it, sleep was after all something that no one could control even if they had wanted to. What Sherlock was up to while Mycroft slept was anyone’s guess, he had never said and Mycroft hadn’t asked either.

Before this arrangement they had been forced to be more imaginative, with Sherlock coming to his flat for the odd weekend and Mycroft occasionally inviting his brother out for dinner or coming for an impromptu visit to his school for career day. 

That had not gone down that well actually. 

Sherlock, 16 back then, had not been interested in merging the two different worlds of his school persona and the one he was when in Mycroft’s presence. 

Mycroft in his well-pressed suit and air of importance about himself had felt a bit out of place as well, a sense of being far too old for his little brother who was still attending school for God’s sake! As he had looked out over the classroom of teenage boys he had felt a dread clamping his heart that he might have made a mistake when starting up a relationship with Sherlock. 

He was just a boy and a fickle one at that, he would grow bored soon enough and where would that leave Mycroft?   
He knew how he felt about Sherlock but sometimes he wondered if Sherlock was mature enough to know what he had gotten himself into.

But that had been then and this was now, and right this minute all was well between them.

He looked over at Sherlock who was glaring daggers at their mother, clearly not tempted to entertain a complete stranger by showing him his improvised chemical lab in the garden shed like some silly little boy who had built himself a tree house. 

Of course Sherlock knew that the chemistry professor would not be impressed by anything he kept in that shed, the man worked in a professional University environment and would hardly lift so much as an eyebrow over what Sherlock had built for himself, but their mother was clearly of another opinion and what she hoped to gain by her suggestion was anyone’s guess.   
Maybe she just wanted to show the man that her youngest son actually could be polite if properly prompted to be so. 

Not wanting to risk either the ire of his mother or Sherlock, Mycroft, along with their father decided to stay out of this by focusing on what was in front of him instead, but Sherlock, like the impulsive little brat that he was, probably thinking that just because he and Mycroft were sleeping together now, it would automatically mean that Mycroft should side with him, made the mistake of not reading the situation properly and turned to him to drag him in to the conversation.

“A University Professor can hardly be interested in the improvised chemistry lab of a teenage boy inside a garden shed, what would be the point of showing him that? Am I not right, Mycroft?”

_Well, little brother_ , Mycroft thought sourly, reluctant to be dragged into this positively pointless topic, _this should teach you not to trust me to go against our mother’s wishes on account of silly sentiment_ , as he cleared his throat and declared that it could probably be both interesting and beneficial to see a shared interest even from someone as young as a 17 years old, despite working in such a prestigious environment as a University. 

Conclusively the daggers Sherlock had previously shot at their mother were now directed at Mycroft instead. 

Well that was to be expected. Sherlock had always been so childishly headstrong regarding certain things and this was clearly one of them. 

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, stop sulking and show out guest some hospitality!” he could hear their mother snap, but Sherlock didn’t turn his eyes to look at her, simply remained glaring at Mycroft as if he had been the one who had started this whole conversation in the first place.

Mycroft sighed inwardly while taking a sip of his wine. His headache was slowly increasing in intensity. 

He guessed his brother would be in a snappy mood come bedtime. 

Well, it would hardly be the first time and Mycroft luckily had learnt long ago to not let it affect him too much. Yield to Sherlock and you were doomed to begin with. 

He had done so once, and look where it had gotten him?   
At the mercy of a moody teenager, admittedly beautiful and clever, entertaining when he wanted to be, but a bratty nightmare at other times.   
Still, Mycroft loved him and he guessed it was the lot he had chosen for himself. He had hardly ever regretted that decision.

After dinner, while their mother cleared the table and Mycroft reclined in one of the wing backed chairs in the living room with a book ,while his father declared that he was going on one of those detestable post-dinner walks that never lead anywhere, Sherlock reluctantly charged off towards the garden shed with the hapless Professor Cairns trying his best to keep up with his hasty pace.

Mycroft immersed himself in the contents of his book and when his father came back from his walk, a quick glance at the old grandfather clock in the corner told him that over an hour had passed without him realising it. 

To his huge surprise and his mother’s delight, Sherlock and Professor Cairns were apparently still out in the shed. 

Absentmindedly Mycroft noted this as very unexpected indeed but turned his attention once more to the book in his hand and continued to read.

But when almost another thirty minutes went by without any sight of the two absentees, an uncomfortable feeling started to nag at his attention and did not go away even when Sherlock finally did return. 

The professor was not with him and when asked about his whereabout the breezy reply of _“he needed to go change his shirt.”_ did nothing to calm the uneasiness in Mycroft’s stomach. 

But as nothing further came in form of an explanation he had to trample down his doubts and reluctantly let it go for now.


	3. Nightly explorations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Sherlock share some intimacies in Mycroft's room before bedtime

One of the things Mycroft always marvelled at when it came to his younger brother was how agile and full of stamina he was, considering the family line he came from where the rest of them, Mycroft included, were more inclined to abhor physical strain and efforts, preferring the calm existence of reclining in a chair with either the company of a good book or your own thoughts. 

The fact that Sherlock was thin, dark-haired and all angles, while the rest of the family were a varied degree of plump, with softer features and different colours and complexion, had made Mycroft wonder in the past if Sherlock was actually some little changeling that had been mixed up with another baby at the hospital when born and that his real brother was now living with a family of tall and slim, raven-haired parents somewhere else. 

As an adult he knew better of course and yet things might have been simpler if that had actually been the case. 

For starters it would not have been as bad that they were indulging in a sexual relationship now. The fact that they were brothers meant that they could never show any openly displayed intimacies to one another in public and if their parents ever found out, it would probably break their hearts. 

But on the other hand, there were no guarantees that Mycroft would ever have met Sherlock if they had not known of each other’s existence and the idea of going through life without Sherlock was one that didn’t sit well with Mycroft. 

As the boy was now climbing off him after having thoroughly ridden his older brother hard into the mattress, leaving Mycroft in a panting, sweaty mess with cum trickling down his thighs, Mycroft was infinitely happy that Sherlock was right here, in Mycroft’s old childhood room that he had left behind over six years ago when going off to college, and not somewhere else, giving pleasure to another man. 

Sherlock at seventeen was insatiable and untameable and always wanted another go fairly quickly after their first session, whatever sexual act they had just finished, while Mycroft had to concede that he didn’t have the stamina for a repeat performance quite so soon. 

As he rolled over to his back and leaned against the puffed-up pillows against the headboard, he took a long appreciative look at his brother’s lean body stretching out in front of him like a cat by the foot of the bed. 

Unlike Mycroft, who had some insecurities about flaunting his naked body so openly, Sherlock had no problems with such displays, and why would he, considering the way he looked. Slim and slender, long limbs and well sculpted, his arse being particularly pert and asking to be touched, squeezed and bitten into.

Mycroft quietly hoped his brother wasn’t prone to flaunt his assets as prominently in school, lest he catch the attention of someone else. 

Mycroft was not a jealous person by nature, at least he didn’t think so, not having been put in such a position before, but the idea of someone else being privy to the view of his brother’s beautiful naked body did not appeal to him. 

But as being his older brother, that must surely be a quite rational standing point surely? Not so much sprung out of jealousy but out of the uncomfortable notion that someone might ogle his little brother. 

They hadn’t talked much since Sherlock came back from his little sojourn with Professor Cairns. 

The rest of the evening had been spent with their parents, at least Mycroft had opted to be the dutiful son and stayed with them, as they didn’t have the luxury of seeing him that often. 

Sherlock, impatient as always, had scurried up to his room when the opportunity presented itself and Mycroft had not seen him until hours later when their parents wished him good night and went to bed, himself retreating back to his own room. 

He had been standing by the window, seemingly taking in the view of the garden, the light from the cottage where the professor was living, gleaming in the dusk, partly hidden among the trees. In reality he had eagerly been awaiting Sherlock's arrival. 

When the door as expectedly had been opened after no more than a few minutes and he had heard the sound of soft footsteps walking across the floor, he had turned around and been met by the vision of his little brother, draped in one of those silk robes Mycroft knew Sherlock favoured and he himself had given him for Christmas last year. 

Sherlock had two, one burgundy and one cobalt blue, this was the blue one, clinging enticingly to his lean naked form, showing the promise of the delectable treasures beneath the fabric. 

As always, Sherlock, like a very eager puppy had walked straight up to Mycroft, and despite his older brother trying to embrace him, Sherlock had gone straight to undoing Mycroft’s buttons, complaining under his breath over the nuisance of his older brother always having too many layers of clothing, it was summer for God’s sake!

Instead of saying something about the propriety of at least a polite greeting before beginning to undress one another, Mycroft had let it slide this time and helpfully untied the strap that kept Sherlock’s robe closed across his slim waist. 

Now, as the sexual pleasantries were over with, Mycroft took the time to actually have a little talk with his brother before it was time to properly go to sleep. 

The topic naturally became the one that had occupied his thoughts throughout the evening like an incessant fly in his periphery, despite not really understanding why it made any difference. 

“Did the professor enjoy the guided tour of your humble laboratory? You were gone for quite some time,” he began, tracing a finger along the visible contour of Sherlock’s spine, the skin very soft beneath his fingers, and surprisingly cool. His own skin was still radiating from heat and sweat despite the fact that Sherlock in reality had done most of the physical work this time.

At first Sherlock didn’t reply. 

His face was turned away so Mycroft couldn’t see him properly and he found himself looking at those dark curls instead, resisting the urge to reach out and card his fingers through them. 

He seldom did, although often tempted. An act like that would be bordering on too much sentiment and a part of him still claimed that an open display of feelings of such nature was a weakness. Exploitable, making him open for vulnerability.  
Especially from Sherlock himself who would immediately take full advantage of such an upper hand. Mycroft could admit to himself that he would do absolutely anything for his brother, but to admit to it openly would be disastrous.

“Did you have much to discuss?” Mycroft prompted, not willing to give up so easily. 

He didn’t like not knowing for some reason, it made him feel like he was being excluded from something Sherlock must have obviously enjoyed if he had spent such a long time in the professor’s company.

“Are you so pedestrian that you’re actually jealous?” Sherlock scoffed without turning his head, and surprisingly it smarted a bit, despite Mycroft having the experience of a lifetime to build up a thick hide against Sherlock’s poisonous tongue.  
Admittedly they could both deliver in that department when prompted. 

“Not at all. I just find it unexpected that you would find such enjoyment in that little hut of yours, with a stranger no less. So much in fact, that it lasted well over an hour and a half, also taking into consideration that it was something initially forced upon you by our mother and which you so stubbornly were against from the beginning. Whatever does one even get up to in there? It’s positively claustrophobic.”

“Over an _hour and a half_. Did you count the minutes meticulously?” 

Sherlock whipped his head to look at him now, those penetrating eyes boring into him, before rolling over so he landed on his back. 

Mycroft couldn’t help but thinking that Sherlock was perhaps procrastinating to give a proper answer and it annoyed him slightly. Sherlock normally was very direct and why would it be different on this occasion unless there was a reason for it? 

To his own surprise Mycroft could see what Sherlock meant by him looking jealous. 

Was he? 

After a minute of silence Sherlock shifted once more, like the slippery slope that was the result of his never-ending restlessness.  
Sherlock hated when the fun was over and the pedestrian tasks of everyday life came next. Like sleeping. 

He made a show of yawning, which bothered Mycroft even more as he knew his brother was anything but sleepy. Then he relented and gave a reply, plenty of time for him to come up with a good answer.

“We talked about an experiment that he is currently working on back home, one that I actually find quite fascinating. As a teacher in a college that has such an impressive chemistry department, he has access to all sorts of equipment that I would love to make use of myself one day. He says Oxford is the best choice for a chemistry student, so that should please you as you want me to follow in your foot steps, but he chose Loughborough because it’s not as prestigious, the department is more slack with him doing his own experimentations during work hours, he can fly under the radar much more easily.”

“Ah, so an underachiever then,” Mycroft said in a clipped tone. 

Sherlock immediately bit back.

“I _knew_ you would say that. Not everyone wants to have a job where there is no room for following your own interests. And it is science. It’s not like he’s larking about with something pointless and stupid.”

Mycroft detected a slightly defensive tone in Sherlock’s voice. Not wanting to ruin an otherwise pleasant evening by pressing on the topic any further and risk that they ended up in one of their meaningless sniping matches, he decided to drop the matter. 

It was no concern of his, how their parent’s summer guest conducted his life, in a couple of weeks’ time the man would be gone again and be nothing more than an insignificant detail of a summer holiday gone by. 

He leaned over and planted a kiss on his brother’s shoulder. 

It was a chaste move, but at the same time intimate as Mycroft seldom kissed his brother when not having sex.  
This was him sending Sherlock a message that he loved him but also needed to go to sleep if he was ever going to survive another day with their parents, as well as this infernal heat. 

As he climbed out of bed to wash himself off, he went by the window to let in some well-needed air. 

As he threw a quick glance outside he could still see the lights shining from inside the cottage but otherwise there was no movement outside except for the soothing buzz of the nocturnal wild life in the garden. 

He pulled his curtains closed and left for the bathroom while Sherlock remained outstretched on the bed, eyes still open but no longer present.


	4. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is faced with some new revelations, both about himself and about his brother.

“Sorry to have interrupted your vacation, Mr Holmes, but it was essential that you came by and gave your opinion on this matter before it went any further. The secretary of State for Defence is furious for the leak and the papers are having a field day of course. What else are they supposed to write about in the middle of summer, there is always a positive news drought well into the end of august, as you know. With so many weeks to fill with only celebrities in skimpy bikinis and sport stars boozing it up while off season, there is no wonder that the jackals jump at the very idea of a political scandal beginning to brew in the horizon. It’s all a storm in a teacup of course, but you know how it is, sensationalizing sells and all that. “

Mycroft gave the blathering idiot walking next to him a withering glare and the man positively bent backwards in his efforts to appease him, like a yapping puppy eager for its master to throw him a bone

“If the Secretary of State for Defence hadn’t so foolishly hired a man with something so louche as _public relations and the power of influence in the digital era_ on his CV, he might have not found himself in this mess in the first place. It’s a nuisance for all of us to witness, not only him, and he would be better off to keep his head down, seemingly hard at work in the future. Instead of this veritable… _circus_.” 

The contempt Mycrofy felt all but dribbled from that last word he had expressed and the man next to him nodded fervently, at risk of snapping his very neck while doing so. 

Mycroft bit back the impulse to tell him to stop making a nuisance of himself and simply gave him a shooing gesture with his hand instead, before striding off towards his office. 

He could still hear the other one beginning to say something in the background but chose to ignore, closing his door with a meanigful force, midsentence. 

That man on the other side of the door was completely irrelevant and not worth the effort for Mycroft to cultivate a relationship with. 

With the reputation he himself was beginning to develop by not tolerating any nonsense from anyone was actually beginning to pay off, as people had begun to treat him with more reverence since his last promotion. He had even heard of people referring to him as cold-hearted and brutal and that suited him just fine. 

By his own estimation it would be no more than two years, then he would have reached the position were no one truly mattered to him workwise and he could reign supreme from the shadowy side lines. 

Despite his young age he was beginning to see the fruition of hard work finally paying off and it was in huge part down to his ruthless stance, others so seldom enjoyed taking that particular role and it came so naturally to him that he had no qualms about being both feared and the source of envy at the same time. 

He had abruptly been called back to London a few days in to his holiday to attend a delicate matter of political proportions, the secretary of State of Defence sticking out right in the middle of it like a rotten egg in a hamper. 

Well, considering the general stupidity of the man it was hardly surprising, but still, one would think that he would have had people employed who could have stopped this mess before it reached the press. Now the words: donkey, nudity and Marmite, as well the smarmy appearance of the secretary’s head of PR, was doing the rounds in all the rags and was indeed a change for the usual tripe written by so called journalist. 

Not so much because of the content, it was no more unusual than what the average participant of any reality show could contribute with on a daily basis. It was of course the connection to Whitehall and politicians and the usual pictures of old men and women of power looking “very concerned” next to those other, more frivolous snaps and scandalizing headlines. 

Commoners loved to see those of higher rank fall down from their pedestals and make fools of themselves so they could feel better about their own menial little lives.  
Unfortunately, what one fool decides to do automatically reflected on the rest of them and Mycroft was one of those who had to discreetly clean up the mess by getting rid of undesirable persons to minimize the damage as much as possible. 

So heads had rolled during his return to London, apologies been made and the secretary of State of Defence had been properly chastised for the way his staff was allowed to conduct themselves and then failing to dealing with the aftermath discreetly. When finished with this business, Mycroft was certain that a few more names could be added to that, by now, decidedly long list of people who had suffered his wrath and now looked at him very differently than they had done before. 

Seating himself behind his desk, Mycroft just needed to deal with a few more matters before departing again, this time with the sincere hope that he was to enjoy a few days of peace and quiet without the interference of intelligently impaired members of Parliament with more sexual zeal than actual common sense. 

Musing to himself, he could see that the need for indulgence sometimes had its benefits, he himself not being a stranger to that notion considering his more than unsuitable relationship with his teenage brother. But the trick was of course how it was conducted, discreation being the key word here and a lot could be learnt from this latest scandal if one was to avoid scandal to come knocking on the door.

While dealing with this mess, there had not been a lot of time to call home to speak to his parents or to Sherlock, and considering the thundercloud that had stormed in his brother’s eyes when Mycroft had announced over breakfast that he was forced to return to London for a few days, he knew he would have to make up for his absence when coming back home. 

The thought of how that could best be achieved sent a tingle of pleasure down his spine and he felt the longing to once again be able to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s narrow shoulders, kissing that soft skin and press his nose into those curls. 

Suddenly embarrassed over his own silly sentimentality, he tried shifting his thoughts to the more mundane things he still had to conduct before departing, but the threat of a smile was still making itself known and he tampered it down stoically before pressing his intercom button and telling his assistant to bring him a cup of tea, putting an end to his thoughts doing anymore lustful wandering.

As the car drove up to his parent’s house two days later, he was actually feeling slightly ecstatic, despite doing his best to keep himself in order and outwardly he naturally conveyed nothing. 

After sending the driver on his way and picking up his suitcase to carry it himself, he opened the gate and walked up the small gravely trail up to the house. 

To his huge dismay the temperature had risen a few degrees more in his absence and he was already beginning to feel sticky in his suit, no longer blessed with the cool exterior of the airconditioned car. But mentally waiving his discomfort away, he stepped inside and made a quick detour to his own room to leave his suitcase before going to greet his family and inform them of his unexpected return.

The house was quiet and by experience he knew they were most likely in the garden at the back of the house.  
Resisting the urge to confirm his own conclusion, he decided to not take a peek through his window but simply placed the suitcase on the bed and removed his jacket before going into the bathroom to splash his heated face with some cold water and give himself a good look in the mirror to make sure he looked as he wished for Sherlock to see him at his return. 

Then he went downstairs and out into the garden.

As expected, he found his parents lounging in the wicker chairs, a huge parasol raised to give them much needed shade, two glasses of iced tea standing on the table between them. Despite those precautions, he could see that his mother was sweltering in the heat in the same way he was beginning to, he was his mother’s son more than anything else after all and he felt for her when seeing how she was positively melting. 

Looking around the rest of the garden that was visible to him, he noticed to his huge dismay that there was no Sherlock to be seen. 

“Oh, Mycroft!” his mother exclaimed when noticing his presence, “what a pleasant surprise! We didn’t expect you for another couple of days.”

“Things got sorted effectively so there was no need for me to stay,” he said distantly, still trying to see if his brother could be seen in the vicinity, but conceding that he had no such luck.  
It was disappointing, even if he should have guessed that Sherlock would hardly be spending his time sitting in a wicker chair, sipping a chilled beverage with their parents.

“We have all read the papers of course and it all seems such a mess, I can’t for the life of me understand how some people choose to conduct themselves like that. I always thought your colleagues were a more respectable group!”

“They are no colleagues of mine. I was merely called in as a sort mediator,” Mycroft noted dryly. 

“But still! Politicians behaving like that!”

“When have politicians ever been known to be behaving better than the average man,” Mycroft’s father muttered, earning himself a glare from both his wife and his eldest son. 

“Hush you!” His wife tutted indignantly.

Mycroft decided not to respond, opting to seat himself instead, beginning to feel the heat getting to him seriously by now. He also found himself wondering where his brother could be hiding, the very reason for his hasty return home. 

But not wanting to come off as too eager, he decided to give it a minute or more before asking, letting his mother pamper him by scurrying off to get him a glass of iced tea.

After a few minutes of idle chatter he decided to broach the topic that was at the forefront of his thoughts, making sure that he sounded nothing but aloof while asking, as if it had just hit him that the most important person was missing.

“Where is Sherlock?”

His mother immediately broke out in a pleased smile.

“He and Professor Cairns…well, _Aidan_ actually, as we now have begun to call him, have really hit it off and have scarcely been visible these past couple of days. It happened right after you left."

She positively beamed as she spoke, as if this piece of information was the best thing she had experienced in a long time. And to her, it probably was.

"It’s really nice to see Sherlock taking to someone like he has to the proff....to _Aidan_ , it so rarely happens. He always has been such a loner, that boy. And I think our guest is very happy with this development as well, he seems very content if I may so myself.”

Something inside Mycroft simply froze upon these words. 

It felt like time just stopped, all the sounds and sights around him zoomed out of focus and despite the sweltering heat, a chill ran through him. For a second he was utterly unable to come up with a single word to say to this unexpected piece of information.

Then the world kicked to life again, his mother came back into vision, her voice still talking and everything around him became hot, colourful and shiny once more while everythin inside of him was instead turning dark.

Suddenly feeling queasy, he closed his eyes, trying to breathe through an unpleasant wave of nausea washing over him.

This infernal heat was not agreeing with him at all and angrily he whipped out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead quite forcefully, not at all like his normally discreet patting movements.

“...so we don't see them until dinner usually, then they’re off again. God knows what they’re up to. Some chemistry mumbo jumbo most likely, you know how Sherlock gets. Having a veritable chemistry teacher at his disposal must be a dream come through....” She stopped, and without him being able to see her through his closed eyes, he knew that she looking at him now, with concern in her eyes. 

“ What’s the matter dear, you look a little pale? Is it the heat?”

Her nodded, unable to actually speak.

“Go up a lay down on the bed for a bit. We don’t want you fainting the first thing you do.”

“No, I think I’ll go for a walk instead” he mumbled and heaved himself out of the chair, feeling slightly unstable but at the same time very determined that he needed to find Sherlock and that he needed to do so now. 

A voice inside his head said that he was acting irrationally. Why did it matter to him what his brother got up to, especially when Mycroft wasn’t there? 

Mycroft didn’t share his brother’s passion for chemistry, he had done what was needed to be done in school regarding that subject, but had not relished those classes the way Sherlock did. 

The same could actually be said of lot of interests that they didn’t share or have the inclination for. 

Like music for example, where Sherlock was a superb violinist and relished the fact that he could express himself through music in a way words usually couldn't, while Mycroft knew merely the basics and could play passably on the piano but no more, he lacked the ear for it apparently and seldom enjoyed listening to music anyway.  
Sherlock instead, had no interest in politics or matters of the world, topics which Mycroft excelled at. 

Come to think of it, there weren’t many interests they actually shared and right now he couldn’t think of any.  
And maybe that was the crux of it. That another man had stepped in while Mycroft had been gone, a man who not only shared Sherlock’s love for science but also excelled at it. 

It was childish of course, his brother would meet many people in his life that would share his interests and so would Mycroft, but that didn’t matter in the bigger scheme of things. 

At least that was how the logical part of his brain tried calming his more irrational part down, as he was beginning to spin out of control with all sorts of worrying ideas. 

Because at the end of the day, this was Sherlock after all and if there ever was a person who didn’t warm to people easily, it was his little brother. 

Therefore, Mycroft ploughed his way through the garden, down the path that led to the little cottage that served as the occasional guest house, rented for the summer by this man who had very unexpectedly managed to sneak his way inside Sherlock’s closely guarded walls that he kept around himself.

As Mycroft walked up to the cottage, he tried calming himself down a bit. It wouldn’t do to just barge in and make a fool of himself. He wasn’t here to start some sort of ruckus, he merely needed to get a closer look at what it was that Sherlock was actually playing at and who he was doing it with. 

Because who was this professor anyway? What was his agenda?  
What man in his thirties would find any gratification in spending his time with a teenage boy unless there was something to gain from it?  
And what did a teenager have to offer that would be of any interest to a grown-up man who knew nothing of who Sherlock really was? 

The most likely answer to that question was, his body of course.

That idea caused Mycroft to knock more forcefully on the door than he had initially intended.

To his huge dismay there was no answer.

He knocked yet again but had to o concede that the place was momentarily abandoned. Striding of in the opposite direction he knew only of one other place where the missing pair could be holed up, and that thought irritated him even more for some reason.

He himself seldom visited this particular place, while he knew Sherlock could spend hours on end in there, and there it was again, that feeling of unease when he thought about how little he and his brother actually had in common. 

Mycroft loved his brother, he could admit as much to himself and naturally there was more than the sexual aspect between them, as far as he was concerned.  
But as this new revelation now suddenly hit him, did he actually know how Sherlock felt on the matter? 

Surely there had to be more than the curiosity of sex that kept his brother coming to Mycroft’s room night after night? But could he be certain of that?

When he thought back to how it had all started between them he could see that the sexual aspect had indeed played a huge part in developments and it had also been the actual prize when Sherlock, after having somehow figured out how Mycroft felt about him, had doggedly tempted him until he couldn’t take it any longer and they had ended up fucking each other like two animals in heat that night when their parents had decided to visit some friends and the house had been all theirs. 

It had been Mycroft’s biggest nightmare as well as biggest wish coming true and regret had washed over him afterwards, his mouth full of promises that nothing like that could ever happen between them again. And yet Sherlock had once more been the one to convince him that it could of course happen again if he simply let it and like one of those seductive sirens that lured decent men to ruin in Greek mythology, Mycroft had let himself be enticed to take that final step into a continous sexual relationship and had not looked back ever since. 

Until know.

What if Sherlock had only been after the sexual pleasantries Mycroft had to offer and had now found himself a new friend in the shape of a man who shared one of his _actual_ interests instead? Up until the beginning of their relationship, Mycroft had not heard of his brother expressing any real interest in sex and maybe it had been the pure novelty of it that had kept him coming back for more? A novelty that could easily be replaced when finding a new interest or rekindling an old one?

Actual fear at that suggestion gripped Mycroft as he marched towards the garden shed where he was positive his brother and that despicable professor where conducting some obscure experimentation, heads probably hunched close together over the microscope, or perhaps over a vial of some oozing liquid that Sherlock was so fond of producing in that little hut of his.

Unable to contain himself he actually threw open the door with force once he reached the shed, not bothering to knock this time around, too worked up to bother with politeness. 

But to his utter surprise the shed was empty as well.

He didn’t know if that made him happy or not, as his feelings were still working themselves around in endless loops of useless chasing without actual facts. 

It suddenly struck him how irrationally he was behaving and how quickly he had jumped down that rabbit hole of speculations without actual facts and it somehow surprised him, as he was a creature who always looked at things through the eyes of logic, priding himself with not falling for the weakness of letting emotions cloud his judgement. 

And yet, here he was, chasing like a mad man from one end of the garden to the next, just because his fevered mind had conjured up a scenario he had no idea if it had any actual anchoring on reality, all because his mother had said a few words that had let his imagination run amok. 

But still, there was that very telling fact that if his brother and the professor were not in the cottage and not in the shed, conducting experiments, where else could they possibly be?

Reluctantly deciding that he had made enough of a fool of himself for one afternoon and luckily no one had witnessed his folly when running around like a headless chicken, he decided that he would find out soon enough when dinner came.

It was difficult to let go of the urge to continue chasing after some answers, but as he decided that enough was enough and a little patience had never done anyone any harm, he pulled himself together and went back to the house to go unpack his suitcase, stubbornly ignoring the insistent voice at the back of his head that said that he could look forward to an uncomfortable time stewing in his own worries while pretending that absolutely nothing was the matter. 

And sure enough, when dinner time eventually came and Mycroft, already seated by the table, awaiting the return of his missing brother, finally caught sight of Sherlock walking towards him, followed closely behind by a softly smiling Professor Cairns, Mycroft was positively seething with pent-up emotions of the not favourable kind. 

As he watched the pair sit down next to each other he had to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to make a scathing remark and the idea that he had up until now cultivated about himself regarding the topic of jealousy was in dire need of a revaluation.


	5. Opposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neither brother is pleased at the moment but an understanding needs to reached.

Sherlock was in a mood that evening, but so was Mycroft and this was actually the first time they hadn’t immediately succumbed to having sex after their parents had fallen asleep. 

In fact, Sherlock had not even deigned to walk across the hall to Mycroft’s room, but stayed in his own until Mycroft lost patience with waiting and came looking for him. And had he not been able to swallow a huge amount of pride, he would not have done so this night, but the wish to move along and not let that infernal man, Professor Cairns ruin more between them, he decided that they needed to have it out now and then leave it behind them.

Unfortunately, someone else had other plans.

What faced him after opening the door to his little brother’s room was Sherlock in a full strop.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft? Are you seriously thinking that you’re getting anything tonight after the way you behaved during dinner?”

This immediately rankled Mycroft, because in his opinion he hadn’t behaved in any way that indicated that he had crossed the line into being rude. 

Unlike Sherlock.

“I wasn’t aware that I had behaved in any way that would indicate that the way I conducted myself earlier was anything out of the ordinary,” Mycroft replied coolly.

Sherlock immediately snorted at this.

“Oh, I see. Commandeering a re-enactment of the Spanish inquisition is not straying from your usual behaviour then, is it? Must be something you picked up from those up-tight politicians you surround yourself with at work. Or maybe you actually do have something permanently stuck up your arse that I’ve somehow failed to notice while being inside it.”

He was perched by his desk, a clutter of notes covering the surface and there was nothing in his stance that suggested that he had been anywhere near tempted to come over to Mycroft’s room for their usual nightly activities.

This, as well as Sherlock’s unexpected insolence prickled even more and Mycroft had not been in a favourable mood to begin with.

Granted, dinner had been a stiff affair and he might have played an active part in that, but in no way did it justify his brother’s current behaviour.

Bringing the coldest stare he could muster without actually turning into the actual Ice Man persona, he planted his feet firmly on the floor, a few meters away from Sherlock who was doing his best to present him with his angry back instead of facing him. 

His brother always was more of a volcano when it came to matters that displeased him, the threat of an eruption always looming in the horizon while Mycroft was a man who mostly tried to compartmentalise his feelings, containing them in neat little rows of supressed lockets that he buried deep and never presented until absolutely unmanageable. When angry or irritated he was all arctic ice contrary to Sherlock who positively breathed fire, threatening destruction to all and everyone when sufficiently provoked.  
Not that Mycroft was beyond destroying anyone if he wanted to, he just did it in a cold mechanical way that had no room for unnecessary emotions.

And now, that fire and ice was threatening to come to a blow soon enough if this didn’t take another direction.

They had fought before of course; they were brothers after all and Sherlock had always been a little brat while Mycroft knew that his brother considered him annoyingly overbearing with his superiority complex.  
There had even been some physical altercations, although rare and always only coming from Sherlock. Mycroft still had a tiny scar at the base of his thumb where a 7-year-old Sherlock had speared him with a fork once during dinner. There had also been the occasional kick in the shins or the sneaky pinches his brother had excelled at while growing up.

Nowadays his pinches were more of the verbal variety.

The essence of dinner quickly reran through his memory as his anger was threatening to overcome him and running the risk of ruining what he had hoped could have been a wonderful reunion between them. 

Sherlock was obviously not going to back down, so if anyone was to turn this situation, it had to be Mycroft. It was after all the sad lot of being the older and more responsible sibling. 

But he wasn’t sure if he had it in him to swallow his ire just like that and as the events of the evening unfolded in front of him, he wondered if he actually should.

Already from the beginning, when seeing Sherlock and Professor Cairns walk in together, Mycroft had resented the image profusely.  
With all the thoughts that had swivelled up to the surface all afternoon regarding this new acquaintance his brother had acquired himself, combined with the misgivings he was beginning to have about the nature of Sherlock’s participation in their relationship, as well as that infernal heat giving him no peace to breathe and think clearly, he was as highly strung as a coil spring. 

At first he had chosen to merely observe the pair and the way they interacted. He had been greeted properly by Sherlock and so far nothing was out of the ordinary, it was a dinner among thousands like it, his mother doing most of the talking, no one really listening to her, Mycroft taking just a little too much of a helping while Sherlock as usual picked at his food rather than eating it while their father was a presence mostly overlooked. 

The exception to the usual line-up was of course the newcomer to the group and as their mother had long ago given up on trying to communicate with her husband, the guest and Mycroft were the recipients of her conversational topics. 

Sherlock was usually speared that dubious honour on account of the high risk he presented as turning normal topics into either arguments or distasteful recollections of things no one at the dinner table was willing to discuss while trying to enjoy their meal. 

Many gatherings around the table had in the past been tainted by Sherlock recalling some gruesome crime he had read about in the papers, fully describing all the unsavoury details that fascinated him, or he could go off on some tangent about an experiment he was trying to conduct, that those who listened to him had no understanding of, but could still comprehend was going to be both toxic , hazardous and most likely foul-smelling as well. 

As Mycroft had been the absentee to the group, his mother naturally turned to him first, trying to pry into the reasons for his departure even if she knew he would never disclose any specific details. 

While trying to politely answer her, he kept attention at the corner of his eye on the interaction of his brother and Professor Cairns. Despite his mother’s insistence that the man was now _Aidan_ to them, there was no way in hell that Mycroft was going to be that familiar with him. 

So when his mother needed a quick pause to breathe and actually eat her dinner, he took the opportunity to turn his attention to their guest.

“I hope you are enjoying your stay with our family, Professor. There isn’t much to do out here and this heat is making any physical activities almost impossible. But I’m told my brother has taken it upon himself to entertain you. That is rather sweet and quite unexpected. My brother seldom tolerates the presence of other people. But there must be something about you that he has really taken a liking to.”

He could actually see Sherlock stiffen where he was seated next to the professor but the man himself merely smiled one of those bland little smiles that he seemed to have cultivated permanently upon his features, before replying quite calmly.

“I am indeed enjoying my stay here, it is a beautiful place and tranquillity was what I was after when looking for a place to rent for the summer, so the quietness of it does not bother me. As for Sherlock keeping me company, it has proven to be a favour I’m gladly accepting and I am happy to hear that I cut muster with this determined young man. One shouldn’t waste time in the company of people that gives you no meaning, therefore I am happy to hear that he has made me the exception to a very justified rule.”

Mycroft pursed his lips in displeasure, especially as he saw Sherlock relax once more, throwing him a defiant look. But before he had the chance to reply, his mother decided to throw her opinion on the matter.

“We are all very happy about this development. This is a rather secluded place and Sherlock has never taken to the few people of his own age that reside nearby, so it can get a bit lonely at times. His brother, being so much older, has not been much in the way of company and they have never been that close to begin with, so we are very grateful for this convenient solution, Aidan.”

“Think nothing of it, the pleasure is all mine.” 

And wasn’t that the whole core of the problem in Mycroft’s opinion. Why was it such a pleasure to be with Sherlock to the extent that had apparently been happening?

He felt like he needed to prod more into this situation.

“And what is it that you and my brother do all day? My mother tells me that they hardly see the two of you, except for meals.”

“Why does it matter to you what we do?” Sherlock immediately interjected, clearly resenting Mycroft for even raising the topic and for outing him as some sort of socially inept introvert.

It had admittedly been a low blow and it had hardly helped that their mother had decided to chime in as well, but on the other hand Mycroft resented feeling the way he did about all of this and if he was to blame anyone for it, it was bound to be Sherlock.

“Am I not allowed to be curious about what it is my little brother gets up to with his new.... _friend_ , is is?” Putting as much faux insecurity into the right title as he could possibly muster.

“No, as that would be very uncharacteristic of you considering that it is likely the first time ever that you’ve enquired about how I spend my time and therefor is naturally met with suspicion.”

Mycroft bit into piece of roasted potato, before answering, savouring the flavour while making a show of appearing to be considering his brother's remark.

“Maybe it is because I have not previously heard of a friend of yours that I could have shown any interest in,” he finally offered and he could se the implied message of that sentence hit Sherlock like a whip across his face.

“Boys...” their father cut in with a warning tone while Sherlock glared at Mycroft venomously as his older brother did his best to look patronising. 

This was more in line with how they had used to communicate when Mycroft had still been living at home and they only met for holidays and the odd weekend when returning from boarding school, forced to coexist in the same environment for a few days.  
Sherlock in his early teens and younger years had been a thorn in Mycroft’s side and that sentiment had been returned tenfold. 

It was strange to consider that they had grown up eventually and taken their relationship in this very unexpected direction of sexual entanglement, but it just proved to show how easily they could slip back into their old roles from childhood when the circumstances demanded it.

Mycroft shifted his gaze from Sherlock’s angry glare to Professor Cairns next to him.  
To Mycroft’s infinite irritation the man still smiled that insipid smile of his, looking at Mycroft the way a cow watches a milk maid, with the hint of observational interest but nothing more, as if it was no concern of his what went on around him.  
It would have pleased Mycroft more if the professor had at least had the decency to look a little uncomfortable. But no, nothing was apparently shaking the foundations of this man, not even a few raised voices around the dinner table, the very equivalent of discomfort if you were a true Englishman. 

“Apologies....” he could hear their mother say but he didn’t feel sorry at all, he felt annoyed and he was pretty damn sure Sherlock didn’t even the know the meaning of the word sorry, he had at least never bothered to learn how to express it. 

“Not at all. I have siblings myself, I know what it’s like, there are always certain standards that needs to be preserved, no matter how old you are.”

He looked straight at Mycroft despite addressing the hostess and Mycroft returned the stare with as much coldness he felt he could still get away with without crossing the line to being overtly rude.

“To answer you question about what is that we do, your brother and I, there is really no mystery to it," the professor continued, taking a sip of water before continuing. "We go to the lake for a swim sometimes, we have been going for a few bike rides as well as some walks around the area. And then there is of course the shared interest in chemistry and Sherlock’s willingness to let me use what he has made for himself in his own little laboratory. Time simply flies when in great company, I find.”

Mycroft felt the sudden urge to ask straight out if there was possibly something more his brother was willingly sharing as he seemed so generous regarding everything else, but even he could see the danger in that sort of a question.  
It would not go down well with their parents sitting right next to them and there was always the off-chance risk that it could provoke Sherlock into saying something that would allude to their intimate relationship. 

For a second the thought struck him that Sherlock had perhaps told this person what he and his brother were up to behind their parents’ backs, but then he immediately dismissed it as nonsense, not even Sherlock would be that reckless. 

As for now, Mycroft needed to let it rest for the moment and talk to his brother about his misgivings in private instead. He was still not pleased by this new development and felt very wary of the ulterior motive of this man that had nestled his way into Sherlock’s graces but right now he would let the matter drop. 

The rest of dinner had past in relative silence, the tension being noticeable even to their mother who had opted to not interfere any further.  
When it was over Sherlock had simply risen from his seat and stalked off and Mycroft had not seen him until now, sitting in his chair by the desk in his own room, defiantly looking at his older brother.

So Mycroft decided to cut to the core of their argument by asking the question that was bothering him the most about all of this.

“Why is it that you have you decided to take such an interest in that man?”

“I’ve done nothing of the sort!” Sherlock immediately bristled. “We found out that we had a common interest in chemistry so it started with that and then it just happened naturally that we began doing other things as well.”

“And what _other things_ are those exactly? You’re not expecting me to believe that the two of you go galivanting on a pair of bikes on the countryside or take a dip in the lake, are you? Whatever that friend of yours claimed during dinner, I don't believe it. That bike and that lake has been here for ages and you have never shown any interest in neither of them before.”

This earned him a haugthy glare.

“Maybe I’m bored enough to make exceptions to previous decisions?”

But Mycroft was not buying it and shook his head accordingly. 

“You don’t make exceptions, Sherlock. No one is a strong-willed as you and no one could make you do anything you’ve previously declared to be boring, as you are so fond of expressing on a more or less daily basis. So the truth please, if you would be so kind.”

The expression on Sherlock's face was that of barely-supressed rage as well as a hint of confusion in his eyes. It meant it could go either way with him, he could very well explode at any second now or there was still something holding him back on account of not yet seeing the whole picture.

“What I don’t understand is why this has anything to do with you? Why do you care what I do on my own spare time? You certainly never bothered with it before. Is it because were sleeping together? Some archaic notion that you feel that you should care about me?” he finally said and put as much disdain to the latter part of the sentence as he could posibly muster.

This actually surprised Mycroft a little. Sherlock had always had the capability of throwing the unexpected curve ball from out of nowhere, catching Mycroft off guard and this was certainly one of those instances.

“I _d_ o care about you, Sherlock. That has always been the case, even before....this thing between us.”

“Well, it certainly never was apparent to me,” Sherlock said with a hint of sulk in his voice and Mycroft was struck by how utterly childish his brother could be sometimes. Was he really going this particular route now? There had to be something else behind all of this.

“Is this about me leaving?" he asked to test the waters a little bit. "You know I had no choice. It was a matter of crisis and it needed to be solved urgently. You can’t blame me for that.”

“Why do you assume everything has to do with you? Besides, I’m used to you leaving, it’s hardly a new occurrence,” Sherlock bit right back. 

“As I said, it was out of my hands.”

“And as _I_ said, this has nothing to do with you. I really don’t understand why he bothers you so much.”

Fine, it was not about him leaving then or Sherlock was perhaps throwing in yet another decoy. Not caring much for talking in riddles anymore, Mycroft summarized it the best way he could.

“It’s not him in per se that bothers me. It’s the situation itself. You have to admit that it is highly suspicious that a man of his age would find pleasure in the company of a teenage boy. Especially when that teenage boy is you. A boy who has the social skills of a bulldozer, that is to say, none at all!”

“Maybe he is someone who doesn’t share that opinion. Maybe he is someone who actually likes what I have to say and can keep up an interesting conversation without boring me half to death with inane topics like politics and current affairs.”

That actually stung and Mycroft narrowed his eyes in sudden annoyance. No time better than the present to bring up what was truly bothering him about all of this.

“Or maybe you are too gullible to see that he has a completely different agenda than what you may think he has,” he offered icily and Sherlock let a hollow laugh, as if not believing what he was hearing.

“That would be just what your dirty mind would conjure up, Mycroft, but not everyone has the same perverted mindset that you have.”

That was certainly a slap that hit its target exactly where it was meant to hurt him the most.  
Mycroft could still occasionally be plagued by how this relationship had come about and if it in reality was a healthy thing for any of them to be in. He, as the older one, should have been more responsible, perhaps not even allowed it to happen in the first place and certainly not when Sherlock had been so young. Still actually was in fact.  
To be told that he had a perverted mindset was like stoking that fire with even more fuel, and he resented Sherlock for pointing it out, the failure he had made when deciding to go along with this.

“As I recall it, it was you who initiated this whole thing between us in the first place!” he retorted scathingly but it didn’t bother Sherlock one bit of course. 

“Only because I was growing tired of watching you ogling me with lustful eyes whenever you thought I wasn’t looking but then being too scared to do anything about it. And besides, as I have repeated on several occasions now, this has nothing to do with us. I am not sleeping with him, whatever your jealousy has managed to make you believe.”

“I’m not _jealous_ , I’m merely concerned.”

Sherlock threw his arms out in an exasperated gesture, as if he was addressing someone delusional. In his opinion, maybe he was.

“Oh, please! Every fibre of your being is screaming with jealousy and resentfulness. But I won’t have you interfering with the only entertainment offered in this hellhole of a place. And yes, before you begin to argue that there is the option of your own company on offer, I would like to point out that we can hardly be shagging our way through every hour of the day, as your stamina would hardly be up for it and our parents would surely not comply with such activities, and finally, I _do_ have other interest besides you.”

Stumped for words Mycroft looked at Sherlock while trying to wrap his head around this situation that had so easily unravelled before him.  
It was not at all the homecoming he had been looking forward to. And it did still bother him that his brother chose to keep company with this man when it was clear that something was clearly going on there, Mycroft was certainly not convinced of the professor’s good intentions. 

But he could also concede that they were getting nowhere arguing like this and if continuing in this vein, it could potentially ruin things even more and he wasn’t about to risk losing what they had on account of some silly disagreement.

But still not willing to admit defeat, he decided to take the middle road of the mediator that he usually saved for work purposes.

“I’m sorry to hear that you feel my company is not enough for you to be content with.”

“You can’t say that, you two are not even in the same category,” Sherlock sighed impatiently. “You are my brother with everything that the title entails and then some, while he is someone I met just a few days ago. You can’t compare yourself to him and come up with that silly result you keep waiving in my face because you feel threatened. He isn’t here to take your place, no one is. I never figured you to be this insecure and suspicious about something as simple as this, but for the last and final time: he is someone who helps me pass the time and he is quite good at it, but that is _all_ there is to it. No hidden agendas, no wicked conspiracies behind your back. We do actually do all those things he said at the dinner table, however unfathomable you might find it. Maybe I didn’t like to do those things before because I didn’t have anyone to do them with.”

Well, this was actually surprisingly insightful considering that it was his otherwise obstinate little brother who had said it.

Mycroft could concede that there was perhaps some shrapnel of logic to it if looking at it from that angle.  
He had hardly been the person to go riding on bikes or going for a swim unless forced to do it, so he could hardly have been very entertaining company for his far more energetic brother who grew bored easily. He had other traits, but enduring physical activities outside of the bedroom was certainly not his forte.

“Well, I will have to take your word for it, although your word has proven to be of a feeble quality at times,” he finally concluded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but at least didn’t retort with some barbed remark. 

Maybe the evening was somehow salvageable after all.

“I won’t be discussing him with you any further. Just let him be, Mycroft and concentrate on what you and I have instead. What he and I do is none of your business, certainly not when you're not even here most of the time.”

It was an ultimatum of sorts and if Mycroft wanted to have any chance of turning this day to a more favourable ending, this was the moment he had to make a decision he in honesty wasn’t very comfortable with but that would put an end to their arguing. 

So reluctantly he relented.

“Fine. I won’t be discussing this anymore, for now...You know my thoughts on the matter though and I shall not be displeased when he leaves, but if it is as you say, and all you do is stave off the boredom in each other’s company, then I shall have to relent and leave it at that. If I see any signs of my concerns being confirmed, the matter will be different of course. I will not idly watch someone take advantage of you, Sherlock...”

“He isn’t!”

“...so you say. But before you throw another tantrum, I have promised to leave it for now and will keep that promise. Just know that I will also be keeping a watchful eye on him.”

With that off his chest he stepped up to his brother who was still seated by his desk, and took a firm grip around his jaw to bend his head upwards. 

It was a less gentle gesture than what he usually used with Sherlock, but he hadn’t fully managed to tamper down all the remnants of feelings he had experienced since coming home. 

He would succeed in ridding himself off them of course, he was the expert in pushing away the interference of cluttered emotions after all, but if the lingering anger was still present for a little while longer while he began to rebuild the relationship with his brother, so be it.  
It could be a nice change for them if Mycroft was the one in charge of the situation for once, and why not start with what they did best, namely the sex.

He stared into those mesmerising eyes of his brother’s while continuing to hold Sherlock's head by the jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. 

“Maybe we should seal this newfound peace between us with you showing me your gratitude for my willingness to look past this insolence you’ve been showing me all evening and find a way to repay me.”

The firm grip around the jaw prevented Sherlock from opening his mouth to answer, although a glint in his eyes suggested that he wanted to make a protest. But it was gone in a second and as his hand reached out to unbutton the top button of Mycroft’s trousers he knew that they had reached an understanding both would be satisfied with.


	6. Tortuous circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has difficulties coping with circumstances and soon enough things comes to a head.

When their mother had said that Sherlock and Professor Cairns spent most of their time together, she had actually not been exaggerating.   
Mycroft did try, he really did, to be tolerant of Sherlock’s wishes but at the same he found himself struggling with it. 

It began already after breakfast every morning where his brother and his new “ _friend_ ” would head off and not been seen for several hours, sometimes dropping by to eat lunch but more often than not, deciding to skip it and weren’t back until dinner time.

Mycroft tried to see the positive side to this development as it left him to do what he wanted and he liked a more sedentary life style than his brother preferred, but instead he found himself unable to relax on account of constantly wondering what the two of them were up to.

The heat didn’t help either, twelve days without rain now and the temperature seemed to be climbing a little bit every day.   
He began to long for the airconditioned rooms of his workplace in London. Out here there was no escaping the oppressing feeling of hell, neither during night nor day.

Another worrisome sign was that it seemed as if Sherlock had lost a little of the initial fascination with the sex he and Mycroft were having.   
He still came every night after their parents had gone to sleep but he simply wasn’t as eager as he had been in the beginning.

If Mycroft didn’t know any better, he would have guessed that his brother was bored with what could be called “their routine.”   
Not that they always did the same things, but it was in the same sort of category and considering Sherlock’s usual need for excitement and experimentation unless he would grow restless, there was a danger that Mycroft might have to come up with ways to reinvent the alternatives he usually used to bring his brother pleasure, or Sherlock would tire of him and eventually let his eyes wander to someone else. 

Someone like Aidan Cairns perhaps who was older than both of them and probably more experienced and not to mention the fact that he already had Sherlock’s undivided attention. It would certainly prove to be an easy feat to lure a teenage boy from his former lover with the promises of something new and exciting. He already seemed very apt at getting Sherlock interested in so many other things.

These thoughts specifically had begun to plague Mycroft endlessly, and while he was trying to recline in his wicker chair under the parasol, his imagination ran wild with scenarios where the professor was doing his best to lure Sherlock to bed with him. 

Mycroft couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he thought this would happen simply because there was a risk that Sherlock was beginning to grow bored with him, but there was something in the way Aidan Cairns looked at his younger brother at every opportunity, as if Sherlock was the most amazing thing he had ever seen, and being fully aware how it felt to love Sherlock, Mycroft was pretty certain that the professor would not turn down the opportunity if he was given the chance to get a taste of what Sherlock was offering. 

Because that was also a part of the equation that was constantly running rhrough his head.

Sherlock was behaving unusually pleasing with their parent’s summer guest, as far as Mycroft was concerned.   
The way he tilted his head to hear what Cairns had to say, as if it was some piece of endlessly entertaining information.   
How he, in Mycroft’s opinion, batted his eyelashes in the older man’s direction and wasn’t he showing off some more skin than usual as well, those buttons on his linen shirt more open for every day that went by?   
Sherlock would blame the heat of course if asked about it, but Mycroft could see how there could be another agenda to it as well.

All these things kept Mycroft from truly enjoying the freedom and leisure time of his summer holiday. 

Then there were the dreams of course.

Or nightmares more like it. 

In the beginning, it hadn’t been so bad, just small little snippets of Sherlock and Aidan Cairns in different scenarios, like talking about some chemical project the professor was working on back home, probably a projection of something they actually had talked about during dinner that same day, or the two of them swishing down the slope on their bikes at full speed, Sherlock’s curls whipping in the wind, smiles on both their faces.   
That was also something Mycroft had happened to see, while emptying the mailbox one afternoon and he had done his very best to extinguish the flame of immediate envy at seeing someone else eliciting that kind of joy in his brother.

Soon enough though, the dreams turned different and no longer of a nature Mycroft could tolerate. 

He would wake up gasping in virtual horror of scenarios where the older man had suddenly placed a hand on Sherlock’s body in a place where it certainly didn’t belong and left no confusion about his further intentions, soon morphing into even more explicit details of him dragging his tongue along Sherlock’s perineum or circling it around his nipple, mirroring something Mycroft had done to his brother the night before but now his own body was replaced with that of the other man.

In these dreams, Sherlock was always in the position of being taken advantage of, he was never the one in charge, but his face still always looked exactly the way it had done when Mycroft had seen it mere hours earlier when he himself had been the one doing these things to Sherlock – ecstasy and lust in his features. 

The backgrounds were different of course.   
In the dreams it was always either inside the garden shed, their naked bodies up on the work bench or pressed against the wooden wall, glass beakers and other utensils clinking in the background as their tempo made the shelves up on the walls rattle to the rhythm of their naked bodies pounding into each other. 

Or it was by the lake, in the grass, Sherlock’s porcelain skin against the yellowish dry grass, the water in the background, calm and tranquil while the professor bent Mycroft’s little brother this way and that to gain access to his delectable body, pumping into Sherlock with ferocity while the teenager cried out in ecstasy:

_“Oh, Aidan! Deeper! Harder! “_

The first night it happened, Mycroft jolted straight up in bed, a silent cry on his lips that only came out as a strangled little noise at the back of his throat. 

Sherlock who had of course still been awake next to him, fiddling with a notebook, had looked at him with concern in his eyes, quickly replaced by mirth when seeing that Mycroft was actually ok and just very rattled. 

“Bad dream, was it?” he had said, one eyebrow raised and Mycroft had just stared it him while his heart rate had slowly gone back to its normal rhythm, relief washing over him. His brother was still safely lying next to him and had of course done nothing for Mycroft to worry about with any other man.

Drenched in sweat Mycroft had headed straight for the bathroom to wash himself off and not bothered with giving Sherlock any further details other than that he had indeed been having a bad dream and the sweltering heatwave was running havoc with his state of mind.   
Sherlock had not enquired about the nature of the dream but somehow Mycroft got the suspicion that he knew anyway but thankfully had decided to not say anything about it.

One night when Mycroft woke up, same silent scream threatening to come out, his body virtually wet from the sweat his body was producing, Sherlock was not lying next to him.

The previous times, the presence of his brother next to him, either awake or sleeping, but curled up beside him all the same, had been all the reassurance Mycroft had needed to be able to calm down and go back to sleep. 

This time it sent him into a panic instead, before reason eventually caught up with him. 

Sherlock had probably gone back to his room as he most likely wasn’t sleeping anyway. 

Mycroft had gone to the bathroom to splash himself with some water and dry off the layer of sweat that was clinging to his body like an uncomfortable second layer of skin. As he had passed the window, he had cast a quick glance outside, as was his habit, sometimes trying to determine what time it was by looking at the amount of light and colour of the sky. As by pure incident did his eyes turn to the guest cottage that was looming behind the trees. 

The light was still on in there.

And as if pressing a button, the rational part of his mind was gone once more.

Urgently draping himself with his dressing gown, he stalked out of the room and over to his brother’s room instead, located further down the hall and yanked up the door in haste, not bothering about being quiet or knocking first.

The room was empty.

Blinking into the emptiness of his little brother’s room his brain was trying to calm down the part of him that was still influenced by the dream and was at risk of storming off to the cottage to actually see for himself if his brother was there. 

He had never before been so illogical as he was being right now, and it vexed him immensely. 

Why was he entertaining these thoughts at all hours of the day when there was no rational foundation to them? Sherlock had given him no reason to distrust him, it was all a figment of his own imagination. And yet, there was a light on out in the cottage in the middle of the night and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

With a huge effort he decided to not storm off to Professor Cairns and confront anyone at this time of night when emotions were running high and he was too influenced by something as vague as bad dreams and green-eyed suspicions.   
If Sherlock wasn’t there, what would his excuse be for barging in? 

He would run the risk of making a total fool of himself and he didn’t like that idea.   
And if Sherlock actually was there, Mycroft knew he wouldn’t be able to trust himself with not going ballistic right on the spot. 

That thought scared him a little. 

He hadn’t previously been aware of being able to whip up this sort of rage inside of him. Until recently he hadn’t even been aware of the jealousy he apparently had when it came to his brother, and the intensity of it. It was almost as if he didn’t recognise himself anymore, this relationship was slowly turning him into a veritable wreck, and he couldn’t stand the thought of what it was doing to him.   
In the past he had always been proud of his ability to maintain calm and stoic even under the worst of circumstances but now it was as if all those sides of his personality had simply vanished and been replaced by this needy, obsessed and controlling Mycroft instead.

So in an effort to maintain the logical part of his old self, he decided that he wasn’t going to storm off in a chase after his brother, there had been enough of headless chasing on his part, it was time he reigned this in, before it completely consumed him.

Returning to his own bedroom he forced himself to climb back into the bed and try getting some sleep instead.

It was useless of course. 

All his mind did was to provide him with even more fodder for his imagination to feed off from and he twisted and turned in agony for the rest of the night, stubbornly refusing to get up and break his own promise of trying to stay calm while simultaneously torturing himself with the uncertainty of the situation.

Next morning, before breakfast, Mycroft managed to intercept his brother where no one could hear them and yanked him by the arm, so his body came up close to his own and he had full view of Sherlock’s eyes, looking for clues of deceit as he questioned him.

“Where were you last night? After I had fallen asleep?”

Sherlock had looked down at the arm that was gripping him so hard it was bound to bruise afterwards.

“Why do you ask?” he said, his eyes narrowing as he returned his gaze to lock with Mycroft’s.

“Just answer the question, Sherlock,” Mycroft hissed, his fingers gripping even further into the soft flesh of the thin arm, beyond caring about the pain it was causing  
.  
“Well, if you must know, I went to the kitchen to have some lemonade, then I went outside for some air, your room felt like a sauna last night. I wandered around for a while and saw a dead hedgehog behind the garden shed. I’m not certain, but it might have eaten something from inside the shed, it was all stiff with rigor mortis but no visible proof of any injuries.”

Mycroft stared at his brother closely, looking for signs of Sherlock lying to him. 

But the truth was, he couldn’t trust himself with deducing the right answer while he was in this state of mind where jealousy was clouding his judgement. 

It seemed like Sherlock was telling the truth, the fact that he was obviously fascinated by having found that dead animal and also the added mystery regarding its death was something his brother would be excited about and it was a plausible answer to his absence. But it nagged Mycroft immensely that he couldn’t be completely sure.

“And where you alone out there or did you have your new friend there as well?”

Sherlock looked genuinely confused now. 

“Why would _he_ be there? It was in the middle of the night!”

But Mycroft couldn’t help himself and ploughed on.

“Because wherever you are it seems he’s never far behind.”

Sherlock sighed and yanked his arm out of Mycroft’s grip, clear irritation in his eyes now.

“Is this what it’s all about? Your jealousy again? God lord, Mycroft, do you really not have anything better to occupy your mind with than thoughts about me and Aidan Cairns? It’s becoming increasingly wearisome to listen to your insistent theories of some made up affair between us.”

Exhausted after last night’s bad dream and following circumstances leaving him sleepless for the rest of the night, Mycroft couldn’t help but feel nettled by this remark and retaliated immediately in a waspish tone.

“Well, if you weren’t behaving like such a tart whenever he’s around I wouldn’t feel the need to be so suspicious of your behaviour all the time.” 

He regretted it the second it was out of his mouth and even more so when he saw Sherlock’s instant incredulous intake of breath. 

He had perhaps taken this a little too far, but why was his brother so insistent of continuing his association with this man when it so clearly upset Mycroft?   
Wasn’t that proof enough that they two of them must surely have something beyond mere camaraderie between them? Sherlock was never this insistent of being with another person, he didn’t enjoy other people’s company, period. So why was it so different now?

But before he had the time to voice these concerns, Sherlock had clearly had enough.

“You know what, Mycroft? If you think I’m such an untrustworthy tart, then I won’t bother you with my presence in your bed any longer.”

And with that he turned around and marched off, leaving Mycroft unable to raise his voice and demand that he came back, right this instant, for fear of being overheard by their parents.

Feeling anger as well as desperation clawing at his insides Mycroft went in the other direction, up to his own room where he buried his face into a pillow and let out a frustrated roar, muffled by the stuffed bundle of fluffy insulated down and quill-less feathers. 

That did nothing to vent his sense of defeat and in an act of frustration he took the pillow and smashed it repeatedly against the wall until it broke and feathers whirled in the air around him, the act doing nothing to prevent the veritable agony he was feeling inside him right now.

As if watching himself from the outside, he saw how he grabbed a glass of water that was standing on his bedside table and with full force he threw it against the wall as well, a million tiny pieces raining down on the floor and leaving a damp stain on the wallpaper.   
Despite the tiny satisfaction of smashing something to smithereens, he wished that he could have just continued to break everything around him, tear the whole room to shreds in frustration. But that was not an option of course.

As he emerged down to the kitchen ten minutes later, seating himself in his usual chair, nodding a quiet good morning to his parents before tucking into his breakfast, there wasn’t a trace of his previous loss of control. 

Clenching his teeth while reaching for the teapot, he noted with silent chagrin that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and nor was Professor Cairns.


	7. Challenges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a talk with Aidan Cairns

The bruises were stark against Sherlock’s pale skin and he had actually not bothered with hiding them either, the short sleeves made sure that they were visible for everyone to see as he finally emerged in time for lunch.

Mycroft winced as he saw them but refrained from commenting. What could he say anyway? That he was the one who had caused them? 

Sherlock didn’t give him a single look as he seated himself and was apparently going for the game of ignoring his brother now. Their mother on the other hand did the complete opposite.

It didn’t take her more than a few seconds to spot the bruises and then a high pitched wailing began, gripping her younger son by the very same arm to get a closer look and then drilling her eyes into him, demanding that he tell her this instant were those bruises came from.

For a second Mycroft felt certain that his brother was going to rat him out.   
There was always this unpredictability to Sherlock, his personality was so mercurial, you just simply never knew what he was going to do or say next.   
In the beginning Mycroft had even feared that his brother was going to tell their parents about them having sex, just to see what their reaction would be or because he himself didn’t care about conventionality. But when Mycroft had told him about this fear, Sherlock had merely laughed and asked him if he thought that he was a complete fool. But Mycroft knew that Sherlock was careless, and he could just as well have gone with another answer.

But this time, just as back then, Sherlock didn’t say anything. He just shrugged his shoulders and reached for the decanter of water to pour himself a glass. 

Showing off the bruises had simply been his way off telling Mycroft that things were not forgotten as far as he was concerned, and that Mycroft had better watch his back and wallow in the bed he had made for himself.

Mycroft couldn’t help but clench his jaws tightly shut while staring at his brother. Things were apparently only going to get worse between them.

At least Professor Cairns wasn’t there to rub further salt in the his wounds.

Knowing full well that Sherlock wasn’t going to answer any questions he might have, he turned to their mother and asked her about it instead, as nonchalantly as he could, while helping himself to the food in front of him.

“Oh, he had to go into town this morning. But he’ll be back later this afternoon. He actually asked us if we wanted to come along to the lake later. All of us.”

Mycroft immediately groaned.

“Why would we want to do that? It takes at least 25 minutes to walk to the lake and it is 38 degrees outside, and that's in the shade!” he said because there was no way he was lumbering off to the lake to watch his brother and that man, frolicking in the water while he was sweating and forced to walk 50 minutes in a sweltering heat back and forth. 

“Mycroft, don’t be rude,” his mother immediately protested with a frown.

“I’m not. I’m merely pointing out the stupidity of such a venture.”

“That’s quite enough. We are all going as he so kindly asked us and a walk never hurt anyone. You _could_ do with a little exercise, you’ve been reclining in that wicker chair for days now.”

Normally Sherlock would elicit some sound to show that he found it funny when someone nettled Mycroft a little bit, normally being over his plump figure or lazy behaviour, especially if it was their own slightly waspish, as well as oblivious, mother who made a remark , but today he neither snorted or smirked. 

No, today Sherlock was a veritable statue of tranquility, doing his outmost to ignore his brother and Mycroft felt instantly annoyed by this.

Yes, perhaps he had overreacted a little bit, but there was no reason for Sherlock to be this offended, they had called each other worse things in the past after all and a tart was hardly so bad that it was a reasonable cause to break up over. 

Unless it was Sherlock’s guilty conscience that made him behave like this, his brother being the firm believer that apologies were for other people and that if he did something wrong it was better to either hide it by pointing attention elsewhere, or simply blame someone else. Mycroft knew this from experience as he had been the victim of both these strategies over the years.

That would certainly explain things. 

Mycroft was still not fully convinced of his brother’s innocence and he didn’t trust the professor’s intentions for one bit, that smarmy smile eternally plastered on his features like clingfilm. 

Why Sherlock insisted that his company was the most excited thing to be had this summer was beyond Mycroft, as Sherlock usually didn’t show this much interest in someone else, not since finding that little stray puppy several years ago.   
Mycroft had hated that dog almost as passionately as he hated the professor, it had been dirty and untamed and yapping at Mycroft whenever it saw him, but it had still been preferable to this usurper in the shape of a menial chemistry teacher.

Because their mother was so dead set on her children being like everyone else and other people surely went to the lake to swim if they had the chance, or went for bicycle rides or took a cup of tea in that ghastly little shop in town with the uncountable amount of frilly tablecloths and the tiny furniture that made Mycroft feel like a clumsy primate whenever forced to enter it, there was no escaping an afternoon of hell following the professor’s wishes for them to join him. 

Why he had asked them all to come when he had previously been content with only Sherlock as his companion was also a little strange, but as the afternoon arrived and it was time for them all to go, Mycroft was made perfectly clear why the invitation had been extended to include them all, as well as confirming his suspicions that the chemistry professor was a veritable wolf in sheep’s clothing.

It all came in small, but well-aimed and killer-sharp little digs in Mycroft direction and Mycroft had no doubt that the reason for this charade was on account of the bruises on Sherlock’s arm.

He wondered if Sherlock had told his new friend who was behind them.   
On the other hand, it didn’t take a genius to figure it out as there was only a limited amount of people sharing the household, who could have done it, but the question was rather if Sherlock had said anything about the reason behind them.

Mycroft had a suspicion that Sherlock could very well have told Cairns some story about Mycroft being jealous or overprotective, which was true, without going into further details about why that was. That they were brothers who also liked to have sex after their parents had gone to bed was probably not information he would have added, but with Sherlock, who knew?

As suspected, the trip to the lake was a genuine nightmare from finish to end, with everything from the oppressing heat that made the sweat run in undignified rivulets down Mycroft’s face, back and armpits as he stubbornly lumbered on behind the others, to the embarrassing moment when his mother demanded that they all should go for a little dip in the cool water and therefor had to endure the removal of clothes and exposure of not quite beach-ready bodies. 

The only one who managed looked good if perhaps a little pale, was of course Sherlock with his slim physique and his swimming trunks hanging daringly low on his narrow hips. A pang of longing when seeing his brother’s half-naked body immediately hit Mycroft to the core and he wondered with distress if he was ever again to be allowed to taste, caress and abuse it to his liking or if things were truly over between them now that Sherlock had decided that he was not going to join Mycroft in his bed any more.

Feeling very exposed and uncomfortable in his own, rarely used swimming trunks, he tried playing aloof but had the feeling that he wasn’t successfully pulling it off, well aware as he was that his body was not up to close scrutiny by any standards.  
Sherlock had made him feel better about his appearance as he had so clearly revelled in it, despite the occasional dig at his weight Mycroft knew that Sherlock loved every inch of his older brothher's body, but right now Mycroft felt every imperfection, from his too flabby tummy to the freckles covering his skin, being on open display, unable to hide beneath an elegant suit or forgiving layers of clothing. 

He did catch Sherlock giving him a quick once-over and it made him for a second feel a flutter of hope, but it was immediately quenched when he saw Professor Cairns giving him a not so discreet scrutiny as well, and his eyes, while not openly critical, still displaying a hint of supressed satisfaction at Mycroft’s clear discomfort. 

The professor himself was not much to admire, Mycroft concluded by returning the scrutiny just as openly, but he was at least not overweight, merely a combination of bad posture, with a pasty hue of complexion and very average looking. His attempt at trying to look sporty by wearing swim wear from Nike did nothing to convince anyone that he was the athletic type, but he was more physically active than Mycroft and that unfortunately showed, to Mycroft’s chagrin. 

Even more tortuous did the afternoon become when Sherlock put his delectable body on display by running out into the water to cool himself off and take a few strokes, quickly joined by Cairns who suggested that they should race over to the raft that was floating in the middle. 

“Want to join in, Mycroft?” he said with that infernal non-descript smile, clearly expecting a no for an answer. 

It would have been tempting to prove him wrong by accepting, just to see the surprise in his eyes, but as Mycroft knew he wouldn’t be able to win, it was not a tempting alternative. 

A quick glance in Sherlock’s direction, who clearly was also expecting Mycroft to say no and seemed to think the question was only a waste of time, made him change his mind though. 

For all the bratty little brothers in the world as well as professors who were too sure of themselves, Mycroft decided that he was going to do this anyway, despite the physical strain it was going to cause him. 

As a person who very reluctantly had participated in physical education classes while at school and had hardly indulged in anything athletic except fucking his brother, since then, it felt like a Herculean feat, but hindrance be damned, he was going to do it.   
Not expecting to win of course, but there was a small victory in proving the others wrong by actually partaking. 

So he said yes, and as expected, there was a glimmer of surprised disappointment in the professor’s eyes while Sherlock settled for mere astonishment, but then quickly fixed his features back to indifference once more. 

Their parents were clearly very uninterested in the subdued drama that was playing out in front of them and couldn’t be bothered to pay any closer attention, so Mycroft was safe in the knowledge that if he by some unfathomable chance managed to reach Cairns while still in the water, he could effortlessly drown the man without repercussions as no one, except for Sherlock perhaps would be alerted to his actions. 

If Mycroft was really lucky, he thought with dark irony, such act might actually spark a renewed flicker of interest from his brother, as he would most likely view it all with his usual fascination that would both revell in the scientific part of the act, as well as the criminal aspect to it.   
Win-win for all but professor Cairns then.

“It’s 500 metres to reach it, just so you know,” the insolent man tried to point on but Mycroft ignored him and simply stepped up to Sherlock who was standing by the shoreline, his feet in the water, his skin glistening enticingly.   
Mycroft was tempted to reach out and touch him but refrained of course. 

Their eyes met for a second and Mycroft could see defiance in his little brother’s eyes. He always had been prone to linger to grudges, even as a child. When thinking himself unjustly treated, no one could act the mistreated part of a Primadonna quite like Sherlock. 

As if proving that exact point, he whippped his head in arrogance and without turning to anyone in particular, he said with a voice dripping with exaggerated boredom:

“Are we doing this or are we going to be standing here gawking at each other all day?”

Mycroft could hear Cairns approaching from behind like a veritable lapdog at his master’s demanding voice and wasn’t it exactly like that little puppy all over again? 

“On the count of three?” Cairns said and Mycroft couldn’t help but supress the urge to roll his eyes, someone was clearly unable to hide how much importance he was putting into this competition. 

Sherlock said nothing which left the professor to make the decision himself.

They all lined up next to each other, Sherlock flanked by each man on either side of him and then off they went at the sound of a firmly expressed “three!”.

Sherlock was off like a rocket of course, despite claiming competitions to be childish and beneath him, he always had nursed a competitive streak and was a very sore loser, as turned-over board games, as well as croquet mallets hurled to the ground in anger, was clear evidence of. 

That he was in the lead and most likely the winner in this was undisputable already from the get-go. 

But the real rivalry was not between him and anyone else, but rather happening behind his back where Mycroft was actually making his outmost to stay close behind his nemesis. 

Cairns, was as expected, proving to be quite the opponent, far more muscled than Mycroft and with greater stamina. He could probably perform twice in a row in the bed if demanded, which, knowing his brother, was mostly likely being sought after, as he had so many times with Mycroft. 

That thought sent a jolt of rage through him and gave Mycroft sufficient energy to catch up with Cairns who was just barely ahead of him now.   
With a few ardent strokes Mycroft caught up with him, and then, with the knowledge that he would not be able to maintain any advantage for sufficient enough of time to beat the other man, he instead made a wide kick with his legs as he passed so his foot hit Cairns straight in the ribs and managed by that movement to send the other man out of balance enough for Mycroft to “accidentally” hit him to the side of his head with one of his arms that came flying next. 

Mycroft heard the satisfying sound of the other man swallowing some water by surprise and ending up in a coughing fit as Mycroft continued towards the raft where Sherlock was already almost within reach and unaware of what was going on behind him.

Ignoring any further coughs, followed by some explicit swearwords, Mycroft doggedly plowed on, seeing how Sherlock pulled himself up on the raft now, his straight back and that pert bottom still facing his components, a hand pushing his wet hair from his face before turning around. 

It was a sight to behold and had Mycroft not been so busy pushing himself the final distance to reach the goal, he would have revelled in the beauty of his brother in his wet swim wear clinging to his body invitingly. It did give him the motivation though to put his final efforts into this and as he sensed Cairns coming up close behind him, he somehow pulled enough energy to actually reach the raft a second before the professor tapped the side of it as well.

Cairns looked like a thundercloud and it was actually very satisfying to witness, as the man so stubbornly displayed that nauseatingly bland expression at all other times.

Mycroft wondered if he was going to say something about Mycroft cheating but apparently, he decided to hold his tongue.   
At least for now.

Sherlock had the audacity to look astonished that Mycroft was the second best but wasn’t there a little glimmer of reluctant pride in his eyes as well?   
Mycroft raised his eyebrows and gave him a smirk that immediately made Sherlock turn his back on him, as if having been caught cheating on the role he had decided to play today. That was actually a little clue that his brother was perhaps regretting his firm decision from this morgning and if Mycroft played this right, Sherlock might be persuaded to change his mind eventually.

No one said anything, Sherlock merely stepped aside so the others could pull themselves up on the raft.   
After the physical efforts of the race it felt almost unbearably difficult to pull himself out of the water, but somehow Mycroft managed it, without accepting the imaginary hand of assistance that no one was offering and he was too proud to ask for. 

Aware that he would not pull a graceful silhouette if he was going to attempt to sit like Sherlock did, his legs akimbo, he decided to lay down on his back instead, it made him appear leaner if stretched out like that and with his head turned he got a full view of Sherlock who was sitting on the other side of the raft.   
Professor Cairns was just out of his peripheral vision and that suited him just fine. _Get used to it, you insignificant little gnome._

They remained like that for a few silent minutes, until Sherlock, and of course it would be him, restlessly jumped back into the water and swam back to shore.

As he was getting further away, Cairns appeared in Mycroft’s line of sight and now that bland smile was back in place once more, but his eyes told a different story. There was something calculating in them.

“You don’t like me very much, do you, Mycroft?”

Deciding that familiarity by using first names was not for him, Mycroft made sure to implement the title when answering and sounded as uninterested as he possibly could.

“I’m not sure I have an opinion of you, Mr Cairns.”

Cairns smile grew a little, clearly not buying the flippancy.

“Oh, but that’s not quite true, is it? Granted, we haven’t talked much, you and I. But there are still a few obvious signs that tells me that I’m right.”

Mycroft didn’t bother to reply to that. What was this man fishing after anyway? 

“Sherlock talk a lot about you, you know,” the professor finally said, when no answer from Mycroft was forthcoming.

Still making sure to sound as if this was of no significance to him, putting in as much disinterest in his voice as if he had been reading a shopping list, Mycroft drawled:

“Does he, now?”

“Yes. There is obviously some very conflicting emotions going on between you two and I seem to be stuck somewhere in the middle of it.”

Mycroft turned his face away from the other man so he was looking up at the sky instead. 

His body was already dry from the sun and would soon begin to sweat again. He should be getting back to land, but he didn’t want it to look as if he was fleeing the professor and his probing questions.

“It’s only natural for a brother to be interested in the company his younger brother keeps,” he finally offered.

This produced an incredulous little laugh from Cairns.

“I’m not sure the word _interested_ is a word I would use.”

“Concerned then. He’s still underage, only a teenager.” Mycroft said, beginning to grow impatient now. What was it this idiot wanted anyway, why was he circling the topic without getting to the point?

“Yes, and doesn’t that just make him all the more scrumptious….” Cairns purred, and there it suddenly was, the possible point to this whole conversation, the reason for his willingness to hang out with a boy far too young and strange to normally bother with if you were a man of his age.

“ _Excuse me_?!” 

This time Mycroft actually did look, whipping his head to stare at Cairns like a viper, his focus suddenly like a lazer beam. 

Cairns seemed unperturbed despite this.

“I thought that would get your attention," he said with a smirk, staring at Mycroft. "That bruise on his arm tells me that there is something quite unhealthy going on between you two and even if your parents are either ignorant of it or choosing to turn a blind eye, I am not. “

For a second Mycroft felt certain that their secret was out and exposed, and to this man of all people. That was only marginally less bad than if it had been their parents. That he didn’t freeze on the spot was a miracle, as it had always been one of his greatest fears that this would somehow come out one day.

But when thinking it through, he couldn’t be certain that this was actually the case and he wasn’t willing to expose himself just for the sake of speaking to soon.   
So he stayed calm and waited for the rest.

“I care for Sherlock. He’s a very special young man.” Cairns continued when Mycroft stubbornly remained silent. “So impressionable beneath all that haughty persona he’s cultivating, so eager for my company.”

Despite this comment prickling Mycroft, he managed to scoff. 

“He would hate you for saying that. It implies that he’s beneath you.”

The shadow of a wicked smile passed Aidan Cairns features and made something inside Mycroft clench uncomfortably at the sight of it, as if he had just lost a game he hadn’t been aware he was playing, despite sensing that Aidan Cairns was definitely not who was presenting himself to be when in the company of Mycroft’s parents.

“Oh, I fully intend for him to be just that. _Beneath me_ ,” Cairns said smoothly. 

With that he jumped into the water, and with brisk strokes he made it back towards the shore, leaving Mycroft staring after him with shock and rage pounding in his blood.


	8. Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has had enough...

If circumstance had been tortuous before, they were a veritable hell now that Mycroft didn’t only have to worry about his derailed relationship with his brother but actually had the confirmed information that professor Cairns had his eyes on his brother and was quite the cunning player. 

Mycroft wondered when exactly this had happened and how far along those plans had gone.  
Had his interest been piqued already that first night when Sherlock had shown him the laboratory in the garden shed or had it grown gradually, perhaps during Mycroft’s absence?   
And what was Sherlock’s role in this?

The more he observed the pair, the more convinced did he become of Sherlock’s involvement in this development as well as the professor’s. His brother could be very persuasive, as Mycroft himself was fully aware of and if Sherlock had somehow began to harbour some interest in this man, mixed with disappointment in Mycroft, it could very well have resulted in this new scenario where Mycroft was cast aside and forced to watch his brother grow close to someone else.

It had been a fear of Mycroft's ever since they had begun their incestuous relationship that his brother could one day either grow bored with what they had or simply fall for someone else. 

Sherlock was after all just a teenager, hormones were bound to run high and he still had university to get through with all the temptations that such a particular experience entailed, while Mycroft was normally several miles away, living in London, and therefor unable to know exactly what his brother was up to at all hours of the day. 

While temptations for Mycroft were few, next to non-existent, Sherlock was surrounded by boys in school all the time. Boys closer to his own age.   
Seven years was quite the gap and sometimes it felt like that age difference was a hindrance between them when it came to being able to relate to one another. In Mycroft’s eyes his brother was still very young and inexperienced with what life actually had in store, while Sherlock often claimed that his older brother was far too stuffy, severe and grown-up to endure. Maybe the advantage of being with someone closer to Sherlock’s own age was not to be dismissed.

When Mycroft had asked about it once, if there was someone in school who he perhaps fancied a little bit, Sherlock had said that they all bored him to death and that he would rather gauge his own eyes out than let any of them touch him. But that wasn’t the same as saying that temptation wasn’t there. If someone was persuasive enough, who was to say that Sherlock wouldn’t change his mind? 

And now, there actually was a rival with his intentions made clear, who had the advantage of already having caught Sherlock’s attention. Who knew how far they had already taken this, behind Mycroft’s back?

When watching them interact on the way home from the lake, Mycroft couldn’t tell if it was all platonic or an act on account of the parents being present. They talked constantly like two friends who had known each other for years. He couldn’t make out the exact words but he could see their lips moving and their heads hunched together occasionally, the casual gesture of Cairns’ hand at the lower part of Sherlock’s back, a few fingers above his bottom and Mycroft positively seethed at the sight of it, even more so because his brother allowed the hand to remain there. 

He stared at it with burning eyes when, with pretend casualty, Cairns turned his head over his shoulder to catch him staring. With a cheeky wink and a wicked smile he signalled to Mycroft that his attention had been duly noted before turning back to face Sherlock again and Mycroft had to clench his fists to prevent himself from closing the distance between them and tear that arm right off his brother’s backside.

The thing that hurt him the most was Sherlock’s apparent ignorance for both Mycroft’s sufferings as well as his failing to observe the true nature of this usurper.

Cairns was a nobody with too high aspirations.   
Maybe he would succeed in seducing Sherlock, maybe he already had, but he would still be nothing more than an insignificant man with a menial job and a boring life and Sherlock would grow uninterested with him eventually or forget about him entirely.   
This was just a casual thing of no real importance and it would flicker off soon enough, but it still hurt Mycroft that he could so easily be replaced by this trivial little fling. Had he himself also been nothing more than an interesting itch his brother had needed to scratch, part of a game that had its allure but now had waned because Mycroft didn’t pose a challenge anymore?

The more he thought about it, the more angry, jealous and hurt did he become, and even more convinced that this was somehow Sherlock’s fault and that the boy needed to be taught a thorough lesson. 

Mycroft had nothing more to loose as he had already lost the most important thing in his life, so he had every opportunity available to him to dictate exactly how he was going to punish his brother for making him feel like his heart had been ripped straight out of him and cruelly stomped upon.

A small part of him whispered that if he _did_ follow through with punishing Sherlock, especially if he didn’t have any evidence of his brother actually being a part of this new development, he would most certainly never see Sherlock back in his bed ever again. 

But as Mycroft saw his brother throw his head back in laughter as the professor whispered something in his ear, the way he slanted his eyes when looking at the other man, how he offered himself up like a delectable dessert by showing off his assets like some unrepentant whore when bending over to pick something up or unbuttoning his shirt even lower than pure decency dictated, Mycroft quenched that voice of reason once and far all. 

His obsession with revenge clouded his judgement and he simply didn’t care. 

Like a wounded animal he only saw his antagonists torturing him even further by their blatant display of closeness, driving the knife even deeper into the wound when knowing that he was now permanently outmanoeuvred as the evening came and Sherlock, true to his word, didn’t come knocking on his door. 

He didn’t come the following evening either and if Mycroft’s nightmares had been terrible before, they were positively hellish now. 

When not sleeping, he twisted and turned in sweat-drenched bedlinen, he tried sneaking outside Sherlock’s bedroom door to determine if his brother was in there or not, but never managed to conclude anything as there was no sound coming from the other side of the closed door. 

All the while, the light was perpetually on in the guest cottage at night and he even ventured out into the garden to see if he could catch them in the act, but never managed to get close enough to be able to see into the bedroom, as a rosebush was conveniently planted between him and the bedroom window. 

His own imagination, Cairns wicked smile and Sherlock’s absence from his bed, as well as the heat that kept him uncomfortably sweaty and bothered at all hours of the day, finally pushed him over the edge. As he was lying on his back on the third night of no Sherlock beside him in bed, he decided that enough was enough and that he had to do something to get rid off this agony that had grown so large inside of him that it threatened to swallow him whole.

The urge to physically punish Sherlock was what gave him the most satisfaction when thinking about it. 

He pictured himself trashing that insolent boy’s behind until his little brother would beg him for mercy and forgiveness.   
As Sherlock had never begged for mercy in his entire life, it would truly be a sight to behold, even if it would mean that his brother would most likely never sleep with him ever again. 

The added icing on the cake would be if he managed to pin the blame on professor Cairns afterwards. 

Their mother would have a fit when seeing her youngest son harmed and wouldn't hesitate to throw the man out on his ears before he even got the chance to utter another word. Mycroft would gladly let him know who was truly behind his expulsion from their household. 

Maybe their mother would even call the police, have the man arrested?  
It would certainly cause problems for the professor’s career if he had a charge of assault attached to his name.   
Mycroft smiled at the idea of Cairns ruined and unemployed. With no income and a tarnished reputation, he might even lose his home.   
It would also show his brother that Mycroft was not to be messed with, that he wasn’t someone you just grew bored with and discarded, without a second thought to consequences. 

If Mycroft from a few weeks ago had been privy to the Mycroft of now, he would hardly have recognised himself when looking at this almost unhinged individual who had lost all his calm and composure, a person who plotted to inflict pain and punishment on his dear brother based on mere intuition but nothing substantial. 

But so far gone was Mycroft now in the labyrinth of irrational jealousy and anger that he no longer cared to verify his suspicions, he only sought some release from this terrible anguish he was forced to live through at every moment of both day and night, and this was the only way he knew how to achieve that.

The trickiest part would be how to get Sherlock alone and out of the house to some secluded place where Mycroft could administer his longed-for punishment. 

At his disposal he had an old ruler that he had kept from his school days, one of those wooden sturdy things that felt good to grip in his hand and would be able to deliver a formidable blow to his brother’s delicate skin. As he had sat by his old desk in his bedroom, plotting, his eyes had accidentally fallen on it and he had known immediately that it would be the perfect instrument to use. It was also so very fitting to use that exact object, considering that the man who was the cause for all his problems was actually a teacher, there was obviously some sort of poetic justice in delivering the punishment with a school ruler.

As Sherlock, consciously or not, seemed to stay of out his brother's way, it wasn’t easy to get to him.   
He was most of the time glued to the professor or off somewhere on his own, where Mycroft had no idea how to reach him. 

Mycroft considered sneaking into Sherlock’s bedroom at night, but as his brother was awake most nights and would probably cause a ruckus if Mycroft came in with a ruler in his hand and revenge in his eyes, he decided that he couldn’t risk it.

No, it had to be something more cunning that could lure his brother to some secluded place where Mycroft didn’t have to consider the noise he was most likely going to elicit from his brother when delivering that ruler firmly over its intended target. 

Knowing that Sherlock’s biggest weakness was his curiosity and wish to investigate when stumbling upon a particular mystery or challenge, Mycroft decided that it had to be something that would lure his brother to a place with the promise of something he would like to examine more closely and yet not bring his new friend along to do so.

Mycroft remembered the night when Sherlock had stumbled upon that dead hedgehog behind the garden shed and had paid it a ridiculous amount of interest, probably concocting all kinds of theories for its demise that would include it being exposed to one of Sherlock’s chemical compounds. 

Mycroft had actually sought out the hedgehog afterwards, just to verify his brother’s story and there had indeed been a dead animal behind the garden shed, to his huge relief. And that memory was now working in his favour as he plotted the perfect plan of how to get his brother alone.

It would have to be something more significant than a silly hedgehog, but still enough to pique Sherlock’s interest on a subject that the professor would hardly share and therefore would not be invited to join in on.   
Something that was so utterly Sherlock that his brother wouldn’t be able to resist.

Realising that he couldn’t let any information come from his own mouth as Sherlock would immediately grow suspicious , Mycroft decided that his mother was going to be the unknowing initiator of events, and got to work on her the following afternoon, while she was standing in the kitchen, preparing dinner. 

He timed it so she was almost ready, because he needed her thoughts to be on his chosen topic when the others arrived for dinner so she could deliver Mycroft’s carefully crafted information, seemingly by random and it had to be disturbing enough for her to not just drop it as soon as Mycroft had given her that first nugget of news.

Pretending that he needed a glass of water, he casually walked into the kitchen and planted himself next to her by the sink to pick out a glass and pour himself some water. 

Normally Mycroft didn’t drink water from the tap out here, it had the aftertaste of earthly minerals and iron that didn’t agree with him, but his mother was hardly observant enough to have noticed this and he wasn’t going to actually drink it anyway, merely use it as a prop. 

Leaning against the counter while bringing the glass to his lips, pretending to take a sip, he then delivered the first bait randomly, without actually looking at her, by saying:

“Did you hear about that dog?”

His mother was naturally not piqued just yet and didn’t even turn her eyes away from the salad she was preparing when answering him:

“What dog?”

“It was something the postman mentioned when I bumped into him earlier today when emptying the mailbox. He said that someone had found a mutilated dog over by the lake. Apparently it was some girl from the village who had stumbled upon it and scared her half to death. It must have been a gruesome sight.”

From the corner of his eye he could see how his mother stopped doing what se was doing and now had turned her head to look at him.

“How terrible!” she exclaimed, her eyes round and upset. Mycroft thought she resembled an owl. 

Calmly facing her, he mumbled: “indeed,” while putting his glass down into the sink, water still untouched. She didn’t notice of course. “It was apparently very badly damaged, almost unrecognisable. The girl didn’t even register what it was at first, it was so distorted.”

His mother’s eyes now looked as if they were threatening to bulge out of their sockets. She was clearly horrified but at the same time a bit intrigued. A good guess would be that Sherlock had inherited his interest in the macabre from her, but had then multiplied it by ten.

“But what could have caused such a thing?” she said, clearly expecting Mycroft to have all the answers to this mystery. He usually was the man that provided answers to all sorts of things, so that was hardly surprising even if a bit naïve of her to assume it. 

“Oh, I rather think it’s a question of _who_ and not a what,” he concluded.

This really had an impact on her, he could positively see how her mind changed direction upon this information and planted itself at the forefront of her mind.   
Just as expected.

“What are you saying, Mycroft? Do you believe it’s a _person_ who has done this awful thing? To an innocent animal? “

“I wouldn’t know myself as I haven’t witnessed the dog, but according to the postman it looked like someone had stabbed it repeatedly and he mentioned something about an ear being cut off, lying next to it on the ground. What else could have caused that result, if not a human?”

“God lord! That’s absolutely dreadful!”

“My sentiments exactly,” he finished, satisfied that he had left her head brimming with horrible scenarios. 

Casting a glance down at the salad that was now standing untouched in front of her, he nodded in its direction and as neutrally as possible asked if it was ready and if he should bring it to the table. The way she had trouble answering him directly, her mind clearly on something else, told him that he succeeded in the initial part of his plan.

Shortly after, they were all seated at the dinner table once more, Mycroft next to his mother, his brother in front of him, beautiful but stand-offish as per usual, flanked by his never absent companion, while their father was seated next to Mycroft, quiet and lost in his own thoughts, as was his particular habit.

Mycroft estimated that it would take his mother no more than four minutes before divulging this new piece of information Mycroft had just fed her.   
That he had actually been seen talking to the postman today would corroborate the story if more closely scrutinized, and that he would also make sure to be the one who picked up the mail for the next couple of days so no one else would get the chance to talk to the postman about this, was also a factor he had already put into the calculation.

But he needn’t have bothered with that precaution as his mother, eagerly placing herself in a more significant role, said the following, no less than three minutes after everyone had seated themselves:

“You won’t believe what I heard from the postman today!”

As predicted, she added some exaggerated details to Mycroft’s already rather chilling version and he could practically see how Sherlock’s interest went from non-existent when his mother had started talking, to hitting the roof by the time she was finished. 

Hiding a smug little smile behind his glass when lifting it to his lips, Mycroft felt pure satisfaction when witnessing this. 

Naturally waiving their mother away as a completely useless source of information when it came to the details that interested him, Sherlock didn’t ask her much, but Mycroft could clearly see it in his little brother's eyes how something had started to whirr inside that brain of his and he would not be able to resist the temptation to go investigate on his own. 

Making sure that he would get there before Sherlock did, Mycroft decided to cut dinner short by complaining about a headache and excusing himself by claiming that he needed to go lie down in his room for a while. As a true testament to his brother’s eagerness over the scenario that had presented itself regarding a mysteriously mutilated dog with a cut off ear in the middle of the tranquillity that was their slumbering country region, Sherlock didn’t even seem to register Mycroft’s quietly expressed discomfort. 

Aidan Cairns on the other hand, naturally not very interested in any local news, however horrible and unorthodox, and certainly not tempted by the prospect of going out to investigate more closely either, did cast Mycroft a smug glance, probably thinking that he was the cause for Mycroft’s headache.   
As if wanting to confirm this suspicion and cement his own position, he placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, seemingly without thought, but to Mycroft’s calculated eye it was definitely put there with intent.   
Sherlock, who normally didn’t particularly like being touched, beyond sexually, must clearly have been used to it as he neither flinched nor gave it any attention. Looking into his eyes, he was clearly not present at the moment, probably already busy theorising about that dog. 

Not giving Cairns the satisfaction of reacting to his blatant display of power play, Mycroft simply rose from his seat and carefully folded his napkin over his half-empty plate before turning his back on his tormentor.

Leaving the rest of them behind, still sitting at the table, eating, Mycroft quickly went up to his room to fetch the ruler, then went out through the backdoor and headed off towards the lake. 

It was an exhausting walk to make, but he couldn’t risk Sherlock noticing that one of the bicycles was gone and he needed to make sure that he was there ahead of his brother, so a quick pace was of essence. 

He could feel his armpits turn wet from sweat, as well as his forehead, as the sun was still doing its outmost to radiate heat despite the late hour, but he didn’t stop to wipe it off with his handkerchief, he just walked on as briskly as he managed without causing too much discomfort to himself. 

When finally reaching the lake, he took the luxury of taking a minute to catch his breath and compose himself before hiding out of sight from anyone coming along the little path that lead up to the lake.

As expected, he didn’t have to wait long before he heard the recognisable sound of a bicycle approaching and when peeking out from where he was hidden, he could see his brother nimbly jump down from his vehicle, carelessly disposing of it in the grass next to the path while he went off to search for the mysterious dog. 

Sherlock was so focused in his search that he passed the place where Mycroft was hiding without noticing anything out of the ordinary. Had he not been so determinedly searching for something else he would probably have noticed the trampled down grass and the broken branch that Mycroft had accidentally stepped on, but now, he did not and when he had passed, Mycroft stepped out on the path behind him and followed, no longer bothering with hiding his presence.

He could see the moment Sherlock realised that he wasn’t alone by the way his back stiffened suddenly and he stopped.   
When slowly turning around to see who it was, there was a trace of caution in his eyes before he recognised Mycroft. The caution quickly was replaced by relief but then unavoidable annoyance over being disturbed.

Well, Mycroft was going to make sure that his brother would not remain annoyed for long.


	9. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets to deliver his punishment and learns something new in the process.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Sherlock sneered and it only made Mycroft even more sure that he was doing the right thing.

“If I didn’t already know the answer, I could very well ask you the same thing. Out looking for that mauled dog, I assume?”

Sherlock glared at him but didn’t respond, and in that moment he wasn’t the beautiful youth whose body Mycroft worshipped and whose attention he craved, but only the annoying little brat of a brother that Mycroft had grown up with and that he had felt tempted to slap across the cheek on numerous occasions.  
It had struck him sometimes how two such different personas could fit into one body and how he himself had ever been able to see beyond the snarky version to find someone he craved for, both sexually as well as emotionally. Right this instant, there was no trace of the boy he lusted after, merely the annoying little brother. 

Well, it made the whole thing easier for him. 

You didn’t need much motivation when the one you were going to trash had the spiky personality Sherlock possessed, it was like he begged to be punched on a daily basis the way that waspish tongue lashed out at people in his vicinity.   
His general attitude towards those around him had always been one of Sherlock’s biggest issues, and Mycroft had been subjected to it on numerous occasions over the years, regarding both his physical appearance as well as how he acted and behaved. 

But as they were brothers, Mycroft gave as good as he got and the bickering had never been a real issue between them, it was to be expected when dealing with a sibling. Despite the age difference, it was the price you normally paid for having a person in your family that you shared your childhood and upbringing with, both the good experiences as well as the bad ones. 

But this, the provocative taunting and torturing of Mycroft’s weakness regarding the love he felt for Sherlock and how it had so cruelly been used against him, that was a completely different thing. 

There was no way Mycroft could just have brushed it off and put it in the same category as his brother’s other unbecoming traits. This was Mycroft’s heart after all and it had been abused most cruelly.

So instead of waiting for Sherlock to catch on to what Mycroft was planning and perhaps try to escape, he calmly kept walking up to his little brother, the ruler still hidden in his hands behind his back. He knew he had to casually let his arms fall to his sides soon enough or Sherlock would begin to wonder what he was hiding, and when that happened, it was better to have as little distance between them as possible as Mycroft didn’t fancy a run through the woods to catch his victim. There had been enough exercise getting here tonight. 

To stall his brother from catching wind of the situation being somewhat suspicious, Mycroft calmly addressed him:

“You are so very predictable sometimes, little brother. Dangle a mystery in front of you and it becomes all you can see. Like putting catnip in front of a feline.”

Anger immediately flashed in Sherlock’s eyes, because when it came to insults, he was very self-conscious about it. He hated it when someone mocked him, especially if it was Mycroft. 

So there was naturally immediate anger, followed by a false indifference which was always a good sign that a barb had truly hit home.   
Sometimes Sherlock was simply too tragically transparent. 

Mycroft could practically see the thought process that went on inside Sherlock’s head, from the surprise and slight confusion over finding Mycroft here, before turning to annoyance as he probably assumed his brother wanted to talk about their recent situation and professor Cairns, ruining all the fun Sherlock had been expecting himself to have, looking for that dog.

But with Mycroft’s belittling phrase about how predictable Sherlock was when faced with something that fascinated him, while at the same time being blind to everything else around him, it was easy to spot the exact moment Sherlock realised that he had been duped. 

Even greater anger was now visible in his features and this time he did nothing to hide his huge annoyance. 

“So it was all a trick,” he seethed, probably berating himself for falling for it, despite not knowing why Mycroft had done this to him in the first place.

“Like I said, it is very easy to steer you in whatever direction I want you to go,” Mycroft mused, ignoring the fact that if that sentence had actually been true, he would not be standing out here in the middle of nowhere with a ruler in his hand, ready to teach his brother a very hurtful lesson.

Sherlock on the other hand, was not late to point out this paradox.

“Hardly,” he sneered, probably trying to save some dignity after having fallen for Mycroft’s trick so bluntly. But Mycroft wasn’t having any of it. He was tired of the thumbscrews being tightened around his own sanity and was looking forward to see someone else squirm for a change.

“Yet, here you are, little brother. Like a dog that comes running, the second there is even the tiniest hint of a mystery to be solved.”

He allowed his arms to casually fall to his sides, the ruler firmly in his right hand. 

The distance between him and Sherlock was now sufficiently close that he would be able to catch his brother by the hair or his shirt if he tried to make a run for it.

Sherlock was still staring at him, trying to figure out what this was all about and Mycroft let him. He had plenty of time and was in no hurry to have this dealt with quickly. 

On the contrary, he was going to relish this moment, as it was most likely the last time he would be this close to his brother ever again. The lake was far too secluded for anyone coming here to disturb them and Sherlock’s bicycle was out of reach behind Mycroft’s back, so there was no true escape from this, as far as Sherlock was concerned and that suited Mycroft just fine.

He felt his heart beginning to pick up pace, more out of anticipation than any actual qualms about what he was about to do, and the grip around the ruler tightened slightly as he prepared to raise it soon enough.

That was when Sherlock’s eyes fell down to his hand and he saw it. 

The ruler.

His eyes immediately narrowed.

“What are you going to do with that?” he blurted out, making no effort of trying to deduce the answer the way he usually did. He was clearly still smarting over that lie about the dog. 

“I’m going to teach you a lesson with it, brother dear.” Mycroft replied silkily and brought the ruler up and weighed it in his hand before letting it rip the air in a swift motion, allowing that gesture to do the rest of the talking.

Like a cat mesmerised, Sherlock stared at it. 

Mycroft watched his brother wrap his head around the upcoming situation and enjoyed the sensation of finally being in charge once more, after a hellish time of being in a painful and helpless limbo that had threatened to completely make him fall apart at the seams.   
This was only a quick fix of course but cathartic all the same, and if it was well and truly over between them, this was the fitting way to make him have the final say on a situation that had made him look the fool for far too long. 

But if he had expected Sherlock to express any sort of guilt, fear or regret, he was sorely mistaken.

Instead, Sherlock looked curious and infuriatingly smug. 

“Oh, are you now?” he said with the hint of a purr that sent a shiver of unexpected pleasure down Mycroft’s spine. “And with that sturdy, wooden ruler? That’s going to make quite the impact.”

Mycroft held his gaze with a steely determination.

“You won’t be able to sit for days.”

Something gleaned in his brother’s eyes and it certainly wasn’t fear. 

The sight of it stirred the lower regions of Mycroft’s anatomy and to his surprise he felt himself beginning to stiffen and grow hard. This was a very unpredicted turnout but not completely unsatisfying.

Smoothly Sherlock came closer and let his eyes wander from the ruler in Mycroft’s hand, slowly gliding over his body and then to finally reach his eyes where he locked them with his own.

“So, over what areas of me are you going to inflict this punishment? Only the classical bottom or are you planning to include other parts as well?”

Disbelief crept into Mycroft’s voice as he replied, clearly taken back by his brother’s pure brazenness. Sherlock always had been too bold for his own good.

“How cocky you are, little brother. This is not for your pleasure, but for teaching you a lesson. You truly have been such an insolent boy lately, you deserve all the trashing you will get.”

For a second Mycroft thought Sherlock was going to make some snide remark about it or dismiss it as empty threats, but when he tilted his head to look at his older brother, there was a shift going through his body, as if he was trying to become someone else. 

Turning his head down so he was looking up at his brother coyly through his lashes instead of straight at him from the same level, Sherlock did his best to look innocent but at the same time disobedient. It was a very suggestive look and Mycroft was now able to discern lust rapidly unfurling inside of him, his eager cock pressing against his trouser fabric no matter how off guard his mind still was about this development.   
It was as if his body, as well as Sherlock, had a completely different agenda than what Mycroft had intended this to be like. 

When thinking about it beforehand, he had imagined a reprimanding scenario where he gave his brother the punishment he clearly deserved by spanking him hard and at the same time humiliating him in the process. But Sherlock looked neither frightened nor ashamed. He looked positively fascinated and indecent, and to Mycroft’s huge disbelief this was beginning to turn him on.

“Yes, I truly have been such a bad bad boy, brother. I _really need_ to be punished,” Sherlock said in faux innocence, looking at the ruler in Mycroft’s hand intently once more, before swivelling big dark eyes to look at Mycroft beneath a few curls that had fallen down over his forehead.   
He looked very young and precious and it took all of Mycroft’s composure to not reach out and tug at those curls while forcing his brother’s lips to make contact with his own. 

But no. That was not what this was about.

“Then we are in agreement,” he said instead and weighed the ruler once more in his hand. “Now, undo your trousers, as well as your pants, and then kneel.”

The order hanged uncertainly in the air between them, Sherlock clearly trying to determine how sure of himself Mycroft really was right now. To put a stop to any doubt, Mycroft let the icy persona he used at work to take charge, his features hardening, his tone growing several degrees colder as he gave his brother the most chilling stare before letting the ruler swish through the air once more in a warning.

“ _Now_.” He simply said and that jolted Sherlock into action, his hands going for his trouser buttons to undo them. Trying to still remain a bit nonchalant about it, Sherlock let them fall to the ground along with his pants, as if it meant nothing to him that he was standing out in the open, exposed and vulnerable. But Mycroft could tell that he seemed unsure of where this was actually going. 

Well, Mycroft wasn’t unsure of anything, he knew just what needed to be done.

He waited for the final part of the order to be obeyed, but Sherlock remained passively standing in front of him so Mycroft raised the ruler and with a quick strike he let it fall over his brothers bicep with a smacking sound, leaving the pale skin angry and throbbing and Sherlock’s eyes going round in pure shock. 

“I said _kneel_.” Mycroft said coolly and Sherlock dropped down on his knees as if being a puppet that someone had suddenly cut all the strings off. 

Mycroft relished the sight. He had seen Sherlock on his knees before of course, but not like this. There was always something defiant in his brother’s stance, even when being in the position of sucking his older brother off, but now, there was no disobedience present. 

Like a general inspecting his troops, Mycroft circled him and then positioned himself behind his back.

“Bend over.”

Once again, there was a second of hesitation and this time the ruler struck hard over the other arm and despite being unable to see his brother’s face Mycroft could picture Sherlock making a grimace of pain. 

“Every time you disobey a direct order, I will hit you even harder. I hate to repeat myself.”

There was a gasp of breath coming from Sherlock, as if he had opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came forth and instead he, with slight hesitation, bent over so he was standing on all four, his arse and back on display in front of Mycroft. 

Despite the familiarity of the sight and the position, this was so far off from anything they had done before, that it didn’t automatically put recognisable thoughts into Mycroft’s head. But he couldn’t deny that it was arousing to have this kind of power over his normally obstinate baby brother and the tightness in his pants had not diminished at all, although he hadn’t exactly counted on being aroused by punishing Sherlock. This was supposed to be a lesson that was to delivered, not something for him to derive any sexual satisfaction from.

Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he steeled himself and prepared to deliver the first blow to the intended area.

“You truly are a tart, Sherlock Holmes,” he said and the first hit smacked straight over the buttocks, causing red welts to appear on the otherwise pale skin. “Insatiable and greedy, not settling for just the cock that is offered to you, but always gagging for more.”

The second blow landed on exactly the same spot and Sherlock’s whole body tensed from the impact, but he didn’t shy away, clearly still stubborn enough to not claim defeat. 

“I have told you many times already….” he began but Mycroft resolutely cut him off with yet another strike, this time more to the left and it immediately put a stop to whatever it was his brother had been meaning to say.

“Quiet, you relentless liar! You’re nothing but an untrustworthy whore. You speak when being spoken to, otherwise, hold your tongue. Do I make myself clear?”

Mycroft half-expected his brother to reply through gritted teeth and full of reluctance, but the affirmation to his question was answered obediently, and there it was again, the slight tingle in Mycroft's abdomen that suggested that the sight in front of him was turning him on. 

He quite relished the idea of having this impact over his brother without facing any repercussions. Had he called Sherlock a whore to his face without a ruler in his hand or the threat of punishment in his voice, the situation would have been quite different. It was more or less what had resulted in this scenario in the first place, him calling Sherlock a tart and subjecting him to his jealous ranting.

This was by far the preferable option.

“This is to teach you not to think that you can do whatever you want with that hole of yours. Offering it up to any lowly creature to stick their cock into you. You are _mine_ or no one’s , Sherlock.”

Two rapid strokes before he stopped and yanked his brother by the hair so his head was bent backwards, forced to look up at him. To Mycroft’s utter disbelief his brother’s pupils very highly dilated and there was a spark of lust burning in them. He was clearly turned on by this.

Mycroft yanked his head roughly back for pure impact before stepping away to confirm a dawning suspicion when he looked at his brother’s form from a distance and noticed that Sherlock's penis was erect and hard despite the seemingly humiliating situation and the pain he had been subjected to.

The welts were stark red over his pert bottom but they looked glorious and Mycroft was tempted to add a few more, but also felt the growing urge to really take this even further than he had initially decided to do.

If his brother was turned on by this, that opened up a whole new level to this experience and Mycroft wasn’t above changing things when faced with unexpected opportunities. 

The question was really how far he could take this if he still wanted Sherlock to be amiable about it. 

One option was of course to follow through with the initial plan and just trash the living daylight out of the insolent little brat and be done with it.   
That set-up had its advantages, it would give Mycroft some temporary pleasure as well as teaching his brother a much-deserved lesson. 

But if Sherlock was in fact enjoying this, there were some advantages to keep things going in a more refined way. Still elicit punishment of course, but with the added bonus of mixing in some elements of a sexual character as well. 

It could very well result in Sherlock not being so adamant in his refusal to continue their relationship. 

But if Mycroft did this without knowing the limits and perhaps pushed the humiliation aspect too far when Sherlock was more interested in the physical angle of this experience, it might all very well blow up in Mycroft's face and Sherlock would gain the upper hand once more. 

It was all a slippery slope and Mycroft waivered for a second before deciding that he had dealt with far more intricate scenarios than a bratty little brother and his attempts at calling the shots on a relationship he was far too young to fully grasp. 

He was Mycroft Holmes for God’s sake! He was not to be intimidated by a bloody teenager! 

So he took back the control he had felt when conducting this plan in the first place and lifted his hand in a swift motion before letting the ruler fall down on his brother’s right flank.

This caused his brother’s penis to stir even more and Mycroft stepped up in front of him and held out the ruler under Sherlock’s chin, forcing his head up so their eyes could meet.

“So the filthy little whore is even more dirty than I had anticipated. You enjoy being punished, do you?”

There was something desperate in Sherlock’s features now and Mycroft realised that he was working hard against his own impulses not to come, a part of him probably not wanting to give Mycroft the satisfaction, but at the same time finding it difficult to contain himself. His cock had been very hard after all. 

“Answer me, Sherlock or I’m going to inflict a new level pain that even your vivid imagination would be unable to picture or be unable to handle without falling apart.”

A shuddered sigh was heard from his younger brother before he, with a shaky voice managed to answer:

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

Sherlock closed his eyes but Mycroft tutted disapprovingly and let the ruler sharply point him in one of his cheekbones to prove that he wasn’t satisfied with any attempts at ignoring his demands.

“ _Yes_ , I am enjoying this.”

“Like a filthy little whore?” Mycroft pressed on, just because he could, and Sherlock sighed desperately.

“Just like a filthy little … _whore_.”

“Lucky for you, I know just the way for you to repent your previous sins.”

Sherlock’s head tilted down, to fall between his shoulders, probably waging a war between succumbing to his urges and to rebel against his brother, but Mycroft knew Sherlock wouldn’t be able to resist going even further, he was clearly aroused and giving up now would only leave him unsatisfied and painfully hard. 

Speaking of hard, Mycroft felt that he was beginning to grow quite uncomfortable himself being constricted to keep his own eager cock inside his trousers and pants, so while holding the ruler firmly in one hand, he opened up his buttons with the other and let out his throbbing penis.

“It is quite generous of me to consider this option. Initially I had decided that such insolence as you have shown me recently could only be rewarded with hard and unyielding violence in the form of trashing you both black and blue. And I seem to have neglected to follow through on that aspect completely, a few stokes is hardly sufficient considering the way you have been behaving towards me lately.”

With that he stepped back again and delivered three stinging blows across the buttock, this time actually breaking the layer of skin and immediate swelling began to emerge. Sherlock hissed in obvious pain and his arms trembled as if finding it difficult to remain in this position for much longer.

One of his hands left the ground to move in between his legs as if giving up any pretence of control, ready to relieve himself. But Mycroft immediately struck out another blow to the arm of the hand that had sought release and Sherlock lost balance for a second and fell forward to the ground, his hands coming to his rescue at the final second before his chin threatened to make contact with the dirt in front of him. 

“You don’t get to touch yourself that way, little brother. _I_ decide if you are allowed to come, and considering your appalling behaviour lately, I’m sorely tempted to leave you to your predicament,” Mycroft interjected with a hint of reprimand in his voice.

For a second it looked like Sherlock was going to say the word Mycroft had up until then thought his brother had been unable to actually pronounce, along with “ _sorry_ ” and “ _thank you_ ”. But a “ _please_ ” did not come forward and Mycroft didn’t bother to push that particular angle, being far more interested in what he would be able to make his brother do to him and his own bodily urges.

Stepping up once more in front of Sherlock, he planted himself so his brother’s face was close to his genitalia. 

“As a part of your apology to me, I want you to come here and appease me by offering some much needed pleasure. Use only your mouth and no hands.”

Stiffly, Sherlock moved closer but then stopped just as he was about to get between Mycroft’s outspread legs, unsure of how he was actually going to get his brother’s cock into his mouth without the assistance of at least one hand.

Mycroft sorted out his predicament by ordering Sherlock to open up his mouth wide and then pushed his cock inside it without hesitation, letting it go deep down his brother’s throat, feeling the reflexes automatically clench around him but not caring about it as he revelled in the sensation of the warmth and moist space, the slights grace of Sherlock’s teeth scraping his sensitive skin.

“Now, suck me like the greedy little slut that you are,” he said and took a handfull of those dark curls that was offered in front of him, so he would be able to direct the pace himself. 

And Sherlock obeyed. 

With eagerness and vigour he swallowed Mycroft’s rock-hard penis whole, suckled the head before licking him all the way from the base to the very tip in languid movements, saliva running from the side of his mouth from the sheer effort of doing this manoeuvre. 

Mycroft closed his eyes to just enjoy the sensation for a few seconds before abruptly pulling himself out from between those luscious lips and letting himself come all over Sherlock’s young delicate facial features. 

He came long and hard, panting from the effort before eliciting a cry of pure pleasure, the vision of his brother being sprayed with his cum while on all fours, his bottom still in the air, striped with red angry lashes and his erect penis between his legs, unable to get some relief himself, was all Mycroft wanted to see right now. 

Panting with exhaustion it took all of Mycroft’s final resolve not to buckle down to his own knees in front of Sherlock.   
But instead he managed to stay erect and when he eventually regained his normal breathing ability back, he took a good look at his little brother’s pathetic form, still painfully hard and unable to do anything about it lest Mycroft would strike him yet again. The cum was slowly trickling down his face and he was a true vision to behold. Mycroft almost wished that he had a camera at his disposal so he could look at this whenever he wanted, to remember every detail. Luckily his memory was very good and to bring this particular vision in front of him whenever he wished to remember this moment, would not be difficult to achieve. 

He wondered if he should be generous enough to let Sherlock come or not. A part of him wanted to take it even further and deny his brother the much needed release and pleasure he craved, but another part of him wanted this to be a shared experience, a new chapter to their already twisted tale and when deciding that he was going to be generous enough to let Sherlock get some relief, he still wanted to turn it into a final lesson for his brother to be taught. 

“Stand up” he said smoothly with the hint of steel to his voice that had worked wonders during this whole experience. 

Then he held out the ruler in front of Sherlock, not letting go of it but simply putting it forward while he made a succinct nod in its direction.

“You may release yourself, using your hands, but make sure that when you do come, it will be over this. “

“Won’t you touch me?” Sherlock whined and earned himself stern look.

“I most certainly will not. Do as you’re told or do without, that is the only alternative you will be given. Considering your painful predicament, I would settle for what’s on offer if I were you.”

On wobbly feet Sherlock got up to a standing position and began to stroke his hard member in swift effective moves, coming hard within just a few seconds, coating the ruler with his semen while releasing a small cry of pleasure, similar to that of Mycroft’s, his eyes closed and his face lax with pure desire.

As he slowly came through and opened his eyes once more, Mycroft held up to the ruler to his baffled face and gave him an expectant look.

“Now, lick it clean.”

“What…?” Sherlock began but quickly abrupted himself from any further questioning, painfully aware what such a gesture would lead to. 

With a final look at his older brother he bent forward slightly and took a long swipe with his tongue along the ruler, licking up his own semen while doing so.   
When reaching the end of it, he went back to the beginning and did it all over again and continued to do so until Mycroft’s old school ruler was clean and unstained once again.

Mycroft lowered the instrument and raised his other hand to cup his little brother’s face fondly.

“Such a good boy,” he said with a far gentler tone than previously used, and looked deeply into Sherlock’s eyes before releasing his grip. “We might yet turn your whorishness to some good use if you are willing to repent and do as I say. Such wayward boys as yourself should not be allowed to be left to their own devices without the firm hand of control to guide them through life. Wouldn’t you agree, brother dear?”

Sherlock met Mycroft’s questioning look and they remained looking at each other during what felt like an eternity before Sherlock finally nodded and Mycroft felt something inside of him finally releasing its grip and the pain and worry that he had been subjected to these past couple of weeks finally dissolved. 

“Then that’s settled,” he concluded and began to walk back along the path towards Sherlock’s discarded bicycle. After a few metres he stopped and turned his head. 

“Pick up your clothes and put them on. We should be heading back home and tend to those wounds of yours. They look like they might sting delightfully if subjected to some iodine.”

Sherlock’s eyes immediately widened in horror and Mycroft hid a satisfied grin by turning his back against his brother once more and continued to walk away from him. 

“Come along, Sherlock!” he said merrily, swinging his ruler nonchalantly in his hand as he walked, not bothering to turn to see if his brother was following. 

From now on he knew that he would.

\---------

As they reached the house, they were met by professor Cairns who was sitting in one of the wicker chairs in the garden. As he saw Mycroft and Sherlock come up the path, his brown frowned in puzzlement and worry.

“Where have you been, Sherlock? I’ve been looking all over for you,” he said with the hint of a whine, immediately followed by a sharp intake of breath as his eyes fell on the two angry welts that adorned each of Sherlock’s arms. 

“I had to see a man about a dog,” Sherlock mumbled and brushed past the other man in quite a hurry, clearly avoiding any eye contact.   
Cairns tried turning in his chair to catch his attention.

“Will you come by my house later, I have that article about sodium chloride intoxication that you wanted to read?”

“No, I don’t think I can. I’m....a bit busy,” Sherlock offered over his back without actually turning around.

“Tomorrow then? I’m free all day.”

There was clear desperation in the professor’s voice as if sensing that he had already lost the interest of the younger man.

“Still busy,” Sherlock said in a clipped tone, and with that he disappeared into the house, leaving a baffled Cairns staring after him in confusion. 

Mycroft who had slowed down his pace to give his brother some space when delivering his message, now came strolling up the path as well, just as Cairns turned his head and caught sight of him, anger instantly visible in his glare. 

Before he had the chance to say anything though, Mycroft shot him a cold smile, his teeth glistening in the breezy summer light.

“Game over,” he said, before passing the man, the ruler still elegantly swinging to and fro in his hand.


End file.
